Cloth Diapers & Panties

I’ve always just wet them on my own and masterbated rubbing the outside with my hand. my girlfriend discovered my secret this week and seems very accepting and engaging, so reading this tread with interest in how we can play in them together 

Well, her reaction wasn’t bad I just kind of shut down, and she let it rest for the day.  Had the chat last night and the response was better than I could ever imagine. Not only does she not have an issue with it, she has engaged in something similar with someone else in the past! Now she she’s clearly not going to go full scale diaper lover herself, but wow!  From her initial reaction i was honestly quietly confident she was not going to up and leave, but relief is not even the word! I can order freely and not even keep them secret! 

Book 2 – Chapter 27: A Tuscan Gift   Sally almost got out of bed early. For perhaps thirty seconds, she seriously considered going for a jog. The morning would still be cool, the roads around the farmhouse were beautiful, and she had been doing a reasonably good job of keeping up with exercise while traveling. Then she remembered the Fiat. That ended the jogging idea. Today she was going to work on a car. Sally had never actually worked on a car before. She drove them, appreciated them, occasionally knew more about them than people expected her to, but repairing one was entirely different. And if Lorenzo was serious—and apparently he was—she had just been offered the chance to acquire her first classic car. Admittedly, it wasn’t a Jaguar XK120. Not even close. It was a faded old Fiat 127 sitting beneath a Tuscan farmhouse with an unknown mechanical problem and probably several additional problems nobody had discovered yet. Sally loved it. More importantly, it was going to be hers. She could already imagine explaining its provenance years from now. I rescued it from a farmhouse in Tuscany when I was sixteen. That sounded wonderful. It also sounded suspiciously like the title of one of those YouTube videos where somebody dragged an abandoned car from a barn, changed three mysterious components and triumphantly drove it home while dramatic music played. Except this was better. This was her own adventure. In the end, she didn’t even get out of bed. Her diaper was wet, but she was comfortable enough that changing could wait a little longer. She lay diagonally across the mattress on her stomach, bare feet hanging off one side, phone in front of her as she searched variations of Fiat 127 won’t start after sitting. The history Erika had given her was encouraging. The car had been working normally when the family parked it before returning to Milan. When they came back, it simply wouldn’t start. Nobody seemed to have investigated much further. To Sally, that was practically a diagnosis of optimism. She messaged Adam.   Sally: Old Fiat problem. It worked when they parked it. Months later they came back and it wouldn’t start.   His answer arrived a minute later.   Adam: What happens when you turn the key?   Sally frowned. She hadn’t actually tried.   Sally: Excellent question.   Adam: Start there.   Sally: You’re very helpful.   Adam: I try.   She smiled.   Adam: If it does nothing or just clicks, battery first. Charge it or jump it before buying anything.   Sally: Just the battery?   Adam: Start with the simple things. Does it have fuel?   Sally: Gauge showed low. So apparently the gauge works.   Adam: Hopefully.   Sally: Very reassuring.   Adam: Add fresh fuel. Don’t fill the whole tank yet. Then see what it does with a charged battery and fresh gasoline.   Sally: And then?   Adam: Then you tell me what happens instead of randomly replacing parts.   Sally grinned at the screen. That sounded extremely hopeful. Battery. Fuel. Turn key. Observe. She could do that. Now she simply had to persuade Erika to accompany her into town in search of gasoline and whatever was necessary to wake up an elderly Fiat. Or Giorgio. Actually, Giorgio had a car. And the Fiat had technically been his idea. Sally decided this created a moral obligation. She wriggled farther across the bed and rolled onto her back. The wet diaper had become somewhat clammy, but apparently not clammy enough to overcome her laziness. Showering could wait another few minutes. Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Katrina. A picture appeared in their group chat: Katrina apparently in transit, looking entirely too pleased with herself.   Katrina: Off to Colombia. See you soon!   Sally smiled and sat cross-legged on the bed.   Sally: Have fun and behave!   The answer was immediate. Katrina: Depends what that means.   Clara: Miss you, Kat.   Sally: I’ll be in Hartford soon enough, Clara. Consolation prize.   Katrina: Consolation? More like the mouse comes out when the cat leaves.   Sally laughed aloud. There it was. The same ridiculous three-way rhythm they had developed over years of growing up together, arguing together, getting into trouble together and somehow remaining close through everything else that had changed around them.   Clara: Well, I’m teaching Sally proper chess when she gets here. I am never standing in for her again. That was disturbing.   Sally: Really? Has Leon recovered from the trauma of losing?   Clara: It takes longer to beat him now.   Katrina: Clara always wins.   Sally: If it’s chess.   There was a pause.   Then:   Clara: Only chess.   Sally burst out laughing.   Katrina: You’re good at things that don’t require competition.   Sally: Unless Chanel and Gucci count.   Clara: I’m not as good as them.   Katrina: You’re something else altogether.   Sally: True. Katrina showed me some things.   Clara: Traitor.   Katrina: You’re smiling.   A pause.   Sally: She is.   Another.   Clara: I am. Sally let herself fall backward onto the pillows, still smiling at the phone. Life felt unusually easy that morning. Katrina was heading off on her own adventure. Clara was waiting for her in Hartford. Leon was apparently becoming harder to beat at chess. Erika was somewhere down the hall in a farmhouse in Tuscany. Outside, an old Fiat 127 was waiting to discover whether it had accidentally acquired a new owner. Her friends felt closer than they had in a long time. She felt comfortable. Safe. Happy, even. Sally stretched luxuriously across the bed. And, she noticed with a private smirk, her diaper wasn’t cold anymore either. All things considered, the morning was going extremely well. -- Giorgio looked betrayed. Across the table, Lorenzo regarded him over the rim of his espresso cup with one eyebrow raised, as though daring him to complain. It had, after all, been Giorgio’s idea. “Of course,” Giorgio said at last. “Battery and fuel?” Sally nodded and took another sip of coffee. “That’s the plan.” Lorenzo lowered his cup. “You know what you’re doing, yes?” There was enough concern in his expression to make Sally sit a little straighter. “I did some research. Basic mechanics first. Fuel and electricity. If the engine turns and it has fuel, then we work out what comes next.” Lorenzo considered that, then nodded approvingly. “Bene.” He reached for a piece of bread. “It was working before. But it was already an old car, and when Fabrizio had the Panda available...” He shrugged. “The easy solution was to buy the Panda.” Sally smiled. Which explained how a perfectly ordinary mechanical problem had condemned the Fiat to years beneath the carport. Beside her, Erika was pouring cereal into a bowl with the solemn concentration of someone who was not yet fully conscious. She dropped into the chair beside Sally and stared at breakfast. Sally pushed a cup of coffee toward her. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” Erika looked at the cup, then at Sally, and smiled sleepily. “Grazie.” She took a drink. A few seconds later, apparently restored enough to address the important matters of the day, she looked toward Giorgio. “Can we get more cornetti after Sally buys her... cose?” Sally glanced at Giorgio and shrugged, leaving the decision entirely in his hands. Erika followed her gaze. Giorgio pressed his lips together. “If Sally is quick at Fabrizio’s... maybe. I have things to do.” Erika stared at him. “Nel senso di non fare nulla in piscina?” Sally almost inhaled her coffee. She had understood every word. Giorgio gave his sister a wounded look. “Sono venuto in vacanza.” He switched to English for Sally’s benefit. “I came here on vacation. And tomorrow I am already driving you two to Firenze.” “Such sacrifice,” Sally murmured into her cup. Giorgio looked at her. “You too?” Sally smiled innocently. Before he could defend himself further, Nonna turned from the sink. “Lasciate stare le ragazze! Anche loro sono in vacanza!” Erika brightened immediately. “Grazie, Nonna!” Giorgio looked from his grandmother to his sister, then to Sally, who was making a heroic effort not to laugh. He shook his head. “I am surrounded.” Lorenzo lifted his espresso again. “That was your first mistake.” This time Sally did laugh. Giorgio pointed at his father. “You gave her the car.” “And you offered it first.” “I said she could have it if she started it.” Lorenzo shrugged. “Then you should help her start it.” Erika spooned cereal into her mouth and nodded thoughtfully. “Papà has a point.” Giorgio leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Fine. Battery. Fuel. Cornetti.” Erika smiled over her bowl. “And Firenze tomorrow.” Giorgio closed his eyes. Sally reached for another piece of toast. She was beginning to understand the sibling dynamic after all. -- Italians built cars as though even the practical ones deserved a little aristocracy. At least that was what went through Sally’s mind as she walked toward Giorgio’s dark green Alfa Romeo Giulietta. From a distance, it was just a compact hatchback. Sensible. Useful. The sort of car somebody could drive every day without attracting much attention. Up close, it had opinions. The shape was too elegant to be merely practical, the dark green paint looked almost black in the shade, and even standing still it seemed to carry itself with a certain confidence. Giorgio unlocked it. “Sit in the front,” he said, glancing toward Erika as she came out of the house. Sally grinned and opened the passenger door. Then she looked down at herself. Faded cutoffs. Old Converse. T-shirt. Hands still carrying faint traces of dust and grease despite having washed them twice. “I suddenly feel underdressed.” Giorgio laughed. “Why?” Sally slid into the seat. Dark brown leather surrounded her, warm from the morning but beautifully kept. The dashboard curved around the front occupants, the steering wheel felt substantial even from where she sat, and the whole cabin gave her the impression of a sports sedan that somebody had compressed into a hatchback. “This is much nicer than it looks from outside.” Giorgio looked offended. “It looks very nice from outside.” Sally glanced at him. “Of course it does.” “I bought it used,” he said, settling behind the wheel. “But it still feels new.” That, Sally could believe. Erika opened the rear door and dropped into the back seat with a long sigh, apparently unsure whether she was supposed to be amused by any of this or merely resigned to it. The morning had already been entertaining. Sally had insisted on removing the Fiat’s battery herself because, as she explained, she wanted to take it with them and make absolutely certain they bought the correct replacement. Lorenzo had then disappeared behind the carport and emerged carrying an ancient metal fuel can that looked old enough to have known the Fiat personally. Erika had watched the entire operation with increasing fascination. Sally had ended up bending over beside the old car, hair falling into her eyes, tugging stubbornly at a battery clamp while accumulating grease on her fingers and a streak of dust across one forearm. Giorgio had stood nearby with his hands on his hips, clearly torn between helping and discovering how far Sally intended to take this sudden mechanical independence. Erika had been less conflicted. She took pictures. Several. At one point Sally had looked over from beneath the Fiat’s open hood. “Are you going to help?” “No.” “Wonderful.” “Hold still.” Another picture. Now the old battery sat securely in the Giulietta’s trunk beside the metal fuel can. Sally buckled her seat belt. Giorgio started the engine. The Alfa came to life with a pleasantly purposeful note. Sally’s eyebrows rose. “Oh.” Giorgio smiled. That was clearly the reaction he had been waiting for. “It’s not a Lamborghini.” “No,” Sally admitted. “But it doesn’t sound embarrassed about that.” From the back seat, Erika groaned. “Please don’t encourage him.” Giorgio selected first gear. “Andiamo.” He eased the Giulietta down the gravel drive. Sally looked back once toward the farmhouse and the shaded carport beneath it. The little blue Fiat waited there with its hood still raised. She smiled. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “We’re coming back.” Erika leaned forward between the seats. “Are you talking to the car now?” Sally faced forward again. “No.” Giorgio glanced sideways at her. “You were.” “I was not.” Erika settled back smugly. “She was.” Sally folded her arms. “Just drive.” Giorgio grinned and gave the Alfa a little more throttle as they turned onto the road. The day’s car adventure had officially begun. -- Fabrizio frowned at the old battery. Then he frowned at Giorgio’s explanation. Then he looked at Sally. Sally looked back hopefully. His eyes dropped to her hands. She had washed them, but not successfully. Dark grime still sat stubbornly in the creases of her knuckles, and whatever had been under her fingernails appeared determined to remain there for the rest of the day. One nail had already lost a corner of its polish. Fabrizio’s expression changed. A smile slowly broke across his face. He chuckled. “Impari a fare il meccanico?” Sally understood enough. She smiled, suddenly a little shy. “Sto cercando.” Fabrizio gave one short, approving nod. “Brava.” Apparently, that settled it. He disappeared into the back of the workshop. Sally stood there feeling disproportionately pleased with herself. Giorgio glanced at her hands. “So that is the secret.” “What?” “You arrive dirty. Then mechanics respect you.” Sally inspected her ruined nails. “I have sacrificed a lot for this Fiat.” Erika, leaning against the Alfa outside, lifted her phone. “And I have photographic evidence.” “Delete it.” “No.” While Fabrizio searched his stockroom, Sally wandered a few steps farther into the workshop. It smelled exactly as she thought a proper garage should smell: oil, rubber, metal, dust, something faintly chemical she couldn’t identify. Most of the cars waiting for attention were ordinary little European machines—compact Fiats, Peugeots, Renaults, an elderly Opel, the sort of practical cars that reminded her more of her Fiesta than anything sitting in her father’s garage. Sally loved it. There was something satisfying about cars with their hoods open, wheels removed, tools scattered nearby. Machines being understood rather than merely admired. She craned her neck around the corner. Then stopped. “Two-oh-five GTI.” Giorgio followed her gaze. A small red Peugeot sat farther inside, unmistakably eighties in shape—boxy, compact, simple—and yet somehow aggressive despite its size. “Bella,” Giorgio agreed. “Even an Italian can appreciate a GTI.” Sally smiled. “Very generous of you.” They had barely taken another step when Fabrizio reappeared carrying a new battery. “Questo dovrebbe andare bene.” He set it on the floor beside the old one. Sally crouched to compare them. Same general dimensions. Same terminal arrangement, as far as she could tell. And, most importantly, this one looked extremely new. She nodded thoughtfully. “Perfetto.” Giorgio looked at her. “You have no idea if it’s perfect.” “No.” “Okay.” “But Fabrizio does.” From behind the counter, Fabrizio gave an amused grunt that sounded suspiciously like approval. Sally pulled out her credit card. As Fabrizio entered the amount, another thought occurred to her. She froze for half a second. Somewhere, eventually, her father was going to see a charge from a tiny repair shop in Tuscany for a car battery. Possibly fuel afterward. Possibly more parts, depending on how optimistic the Fiat turned out to be. Sally pressed her lips together. Adrian Weiss did not yet know his daughter owned a Fiat 127. She tapped the card against the terminal. Approved. Giorgio noticed her expression. “What?” Sally took the receipt. “Nothing.” She picked up one end of the battery before Giorgio could stop her. “I’ve just realized I should probably tell my father I bought a car.” Giorgio blinked. “You didn’t buy it.” “That somehow makes it worse.” Erika burst out laughing from the doorway. Sally sighed. Her first classic car was already becoming complicated, and they hadn’t even put the battery in it yet. -- They stopped at the same coffee shop on the way back. This time Sally didn’t hesitate. She stepped up to the counter, waited for the barista to glance her way, and called out clearly: “Tre caffè e tre cornetti, per favore!” The barista gave her an emphatic nod and immediately turned to the machine. Giorgio looked impressed. Erika looked devastated. “I should have filmed that.” Sally frowned at her. “This is not a reality show.” “It should be.” “It absolutely should not.” Erika was still beaming. “You have embraced the Italian lifestyle.” Sally made a face and leaned against the counter. “I feel at home.” “You looked at home at Fabrizio’s too,” Giorgio said. Sally glanced at him. “I like cars. I think they’re turning into a hobby.” “I thought you were more of a Lamborghini girl.” Sally smiled. “I am. But that doesn’t mean I only like fast cars.” He nodded toward her. “Now you like centoventisette.” Sally laughed softly. “It’s not really about the power. It’s the car itself. The design. The history. Who made it, why they made it that way, who drove it before.” She shrugged. “There’s art in cars.” Giorgio studied her for a moment. Then he nodded, apparently satisfied. “Ah. Then you are a true Italian.” Erika rolled her eyes, but the proud smile stayed firmly in place. Sally felt herself blush despite herself. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” “It is,” Giorgio said firmly. The barista set the coffees down in front of them. Erika lifted hers. “To Sally. Italian by mechanical contamination.” Sally raised her own cup. “That is not a thing.” “It is now.” Giorgio picked up a cornetto. “I think Fabrizio has already accepted her.” Sally smiled into her coffee. That, for some reason, pleased her even more than the compliment. -- “Stazione di servizio,” Giorgio said, pointing ahead. The gas station was small, the sort of place that seemed designed for people who already knew exactly what they needed: a couple of pumps, a compact convenience store, faded signs, and just enough parking to be useful without pretending to be anything more. Sally had pumped gas before, of course, though usually directly into a car. The old metal fuel can was a different matter. She crouched beside it and studied the cap. “How does this even open?” Giorgio leaned over. “Carefully.” “Very helpful.” He grinned. After a little twisting, pulling and one false start, Sally finally worked out the old closure. She inspected the canister again, checked the seal, and gave it a cautious nod. It looked ancient, but solid. “Venti litri,” Giorgio said, pointing to the stamped capacity. Sally looked at him. “Twenty?” “Twenty.” “That seems like a lot of gasoline to be holding between my shoes.” “It will be fine.” “That is exactly what people say immediately before something is not fine.” Giorgio laughed and took the nozzle. Sally kept the can firmly on the ground while he filled it, watching the level rise with almost exaggerated concentration. The smell of gasoline hung briefly in the warm air. “Enough,” she said. Giorgio stopped. Sally replaced the cap herself, tightened it carefully, then gave it an experimental tug. “Secure.” “You look very serious.” “I am transporting dangerous chemicals.” “You are transporting petrol ten kilometers.” “Still dangerous chemicals.” Behind them, Erika remained in the Alfa, phone in hand, scrolling with the complete detachment of someone whose contribution to the restoration effort had already reached its natural limit. Sally glanced through the window. “She’s helping a lot.” Giorgio followed her gaze. “She is conserving energy.” “For what?” Erika looked up just long enough to answer through the open window. “Piscina.” Sally laughed. Of course. For Erika, the Fiat was Sally’s adventure. The pool was waiting. -- As they headed back toward the farmhouse, Sally twisted in her seat to look at Erika. “I promise I’ll get the Fiat running soon and then join you in the pool.” Erika’s eyes lit up. “First, you take me for a ride when you fix it.” Sally blinked. “What, here?” Erika shrugged. “It’s private property. My brothers learned to drive here.” Sally tilted her head toward the back seat. “And you?” Before Erika could answer, Giorgio grinned. “She’s afraid of driving.” “È una bugia!” Erika shot back. Giorgio laughed. “Non è una bugia. The first time she stalled the Panda, it was enough drama for the whole family.” Erika folded her arms. “I do not have fear. I...” She searched for the right word. “Procrastinate.” Sally turned farther around in her seat, amused. “About driving?” “Maybe I will drive an automatic car.” Giorgio made a dismissive sound. Erika kicked lightly at the back of his seat. “Stop.” Sally smiled. “I’ll teach you.” Erika looked at her. “To drive?” “A manual.” Giorgio glanced sideways at Sally. “You’re volunteering?” Sally raised an eyebrow at him. “No boys allowed.” Erika brightened immediately. “Yes.” Giorgio laughed. “This I want to see.” “You won’t,” Sally said. “Why?” “Because no boys allowed.” Erika leaned back, suddenly very pleased with the arrangement. “Perfect.” Giorgio shook his head. “I think this is a terrible idea.” Sally faced forward again. “That’s because you’re not invited.” From the back seat came a satisfied little laugh. For the rest of the drive, Erika seemed considerably less interested in the pool. -- This time, they pushed the Fiat out from beneath the covered carport and into the open. Sally stood in front of it with her hands on her hips. The little car somehow looked more hopeful in daylight. She released the hood and lifted it forward. The thing had an oddly bulbous, almost square shape, hinged at the front and held open by a wonderfully primitive metal support that required no explanation and apparently no improvement. Giorgio peered over her shoulder. “Non sono un meccanico,” he confessed. Sally pressed her lips together. “I’ll manage.” She leaned into the engine bay. The empty space where the battery belonged was obvious enough. She moved the cables aside, braced herself, then lifted the new battery from the ground with both hands. It was heavier than she expected. “Why are batteries made of concrete?” Giorgio chuckled. “Want help?” “No.” She immediately reconsidered. “Maybe.” Together they guided it into place. Sally stepped back, rubbed her palms against her shorts, then leaned in again. She had read enough instructions that morning to make changing a battery sound alarmingly close to bomb disposal. Positive first. She checked. Then checked again. The connectors, at least, looked surprisingly decent. No serious corrosion. No crusty green horror. For a car that had sat neglected, it was beginning to seem increasingly cooperative. Sally reached toward the old toolbox Lorenzo had supplied. Giorgio was already holding out a small wrench. She grinned. “Grazie.” “Not a mechanic,” he reminded her. “Of course not.” She tightened the terminal carefully. Then the other. It felt ridiculously important. Almost surgical. By then Erika had abandoned the pool. She appeared barefoot at the edge of the carport in a wet bikini, curls dripping down her shoulders, and came padding across the warm stone to inspect the operation. “Funziona?” Giorgio gave a dry laugh. “Aspetta!” Sally wiped her fingertips against a rag. “Well, we can find out if we have electricity.” She climbed into the driver’s seat. The interior smelled old—vinyl, dust, warm plastic, and that peculiar scent cars developed after spending too much time closed up. She inserted the key. Turned it one position. A red warning light appeared on the dashboard. Sally’s face lit up. “Oh.” Erika leaned closer through the open door. “È bene?” “Very.” Sally pressed the center of the steering wheel. The horn erupted. Erika jumped backward. “Ah!” Sally burst out laughing. Giorgio laughed too. “Bene!” Erika called, recovering her dignity. “Electricity!” “We have electricity,” Sally agreed. That already felt like victory. She climbed out again and returned to the engine bay. Before installing the battery, she had checked what she could. Oil level: fine. Nothing obvious appeared broken. The rubber hoses looked old but intact. The coolant reservoir was so discolored she couldn’t see the level through the plastic, so she had carefully opened it while the engine was cold and checked directly. Good enough. The brake-fluid reservoir was equally uncooperative, but a tap against the side revealed a line that seemed to be where it belonged. Adam had given her the basics. Don’t assume the worst. Check fluids. Check battery. Add fresh fuel. See what the car actually does before trying to fix imaginary problems. So far, nothing looked disastrous. Sally wiped another streak of grime from her fingers. “Fuel.” Giorgio brought the old metal can over. Sally removed the Fiat’s fuel cap and set a tin funnel into the filler neck. “Don’t put all of it,” Giorgio cautioned. “I won’t. Half.” “Perché?” “Because if something leaks, I’d rather discover it with ten liters than twenty.” Giorgio paused. Then nodded. She steadied the funnel while Giorgio lifted the fuel can. “Sostieni questo.” “I’ve got it.” He tipped the can slowly. The fuel began to glug through the funnel, the sharp smell immediately filling the air. Sally watched carefully for any sign of gasoline appearing somewhere it shouldn’t. Nothing. So far, the Fiat continued behaving like a car that merely wanted someone to pay attention to it. After a while Giorgio lowered the can. “Pronto.” Sally removed the funnel, wiped the filler neck and screwed the cap back into place. She took a breath. “Okay.” Erika already had her phone out. Of course she did. Sally looked at the camera. “Not my best look.” Her hair was askew, there was a streak of grease along one forearm, and her fingertips had returned to approximately the condition that had earned Fabrizio’s respect. Erika smiled from behind the phone. “You look adventurous.” “That is a very generous word for dirty.” Sally opened the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. Erika followed with the camera. Sally pointed at her. “If this doesn’t start, this video disappears.” “No.” “Erika.” “Historical record.” Giorgio leaned against the open door. “Just try it.” Sally wrapped her hand around the key. Suddenly, her confidence evaporated. A battery and some fresh gasoline were one thing. Actually hearing the engine come alive was another. She glanced toward Erika’s phone. “This is going to be incredibly embarrassing if nothing happens.” Erika’s grin widened. “Go for it.” Giorgio folded his arms, watching. Sally rested one foot on the clutch. “Here goes nothing.” She turned the key. -- Rrr-rrr-rrr... Sally released the key almost involuntarily. For a second she simply sat there, surprised. “It turned.” She looked genuinely delighted. Giorgio laughed. “Yes. That is generally what engines do.” “No, I mean—it turned well.” That had felt almost too easy. Sally wrapped her fingers around the key again. “Okay. Again.” This time she held it. Rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr... The starter spun the engine with reassuring energy, but nothing caught. No ignition. No hint that the Fiat intended to do anything more than rotate obediently until Sally got bored. She stopped. Silence returned. Adam had warned her about this. A car that had been sitting for a long time might need coaxing, particularly an old carbureted one. If everything else was basically healthy, patience mattered. Sally pressed her lips together and glanced toward Erika’s phone. “Okay. So far, so good.” Erika kept filming. “It did nothing.” “It turned.” “It did not start.” “It’s waking up.” Sally gave the camera a confident little smile. “We need to insist. Like waking up a sleeping Erika.” “Non mi sveglio così,” Erika retorted from behind the phone. Giorgio laughed loudly. Erika lowered the camera just enough to glare at him. “Stronzo.” That made Sally laugh. “Family harmony. Beautiful.” She tried again. Rrr-rrr-rrr... This time she let it crank longer. The new battery sounded strong enough, and Sally resisted the instinct to give up too quickly. Come on. Come on... There. A cough. Sally’s eyes widened. The engine stumbled once, gave an irregular little sputter— —and died. She released the key. For an instant nobody said anything. Sally stared through the windshield. “It tried.” Erika had lowered the phone. “I think it’s too old.” Sally turned toward her. “You don’t get to declare it dead after one cough.” Erika shrugged, already prepared to accept defeat on the Fiat’s behalf. Giorgio, however, remained beside the open door with his arms crossed. He was watching Sally rather than the car. Sally shook her head. “The engine turns really well. We have electricity. We have fuel. It tried to fire.” She thought through everything she had read that morning. “Old carburetors can be fussy. You have to coax them back to life.” “Or so you read,” Giorgio supplied. “Exactly.” Erika raised the phone again. Apparently the documentary had resumed. Sally pulled the choke out a little farther. “All right, Fiat. We’ve come this far.” She turned the key. Rrr-rrr-rrr... Nothing. She feathered the accelerator lightly. Rrr-rrr—cough—rrr— Sally felt something respond beneath her foot. “Oh.” She tried again, carefully working the throttle. The engine coughed. Caught. Stumbled. Nearly died. “No, no, no—” Sally gave it a little more throttle. The engine caught again. For several chaotic seconds it seemed unable to decide whether it was alive or not. The revs rose, dropped, coughed, rose again— —and then suddenly the Fiat was running. Sally’s mouth fell open. She held the throttle carefully, keeping the revs up while the engine shook itself awake. With the choke still partly out, it settled into an uneven, elevated idle. And there it was. The unmistakable sound of an old little Fiat four-cylinder. Nothing refined about it. Mechanical chatter, vibration through the steering wheel, a slightly ragged exhaust note—and something almost absurdly cheerful about the whole thing. Sally beamed. “YES!” Erika stared through the phone screen. Giorgio began clapping. “Brava!” Sally laughed aloud, one hand still carefully managing the choke. Up on the terrace, Lorenzo appeared at the railing. “Funziona?” Giorgio looked up. “Funziona!” Lorenzo immediately turned toward the house. “Isabella! Funziona! Ha messo in moto la macchina!” Isabella appeared beside him a moment later. Sally gave the Fiat a gentle rev. The little engine answered enthusiastically. She couldn’t resist. She hit the horn. BEEP! Lorenzo laughed from the terrace. “La prima auto italiana di Sally Weiss!” Sally leaned toward the open door and waved triumphantly at Erika’s camera. “La mia seconda auto italiana!” Erika pointed upward. “È vero! Ha anche una Lamborghini arancione!” That made Lorenzo laugh harder. Then a thick cloud of unpleasant exhaust drifted from behind the Fiat and rolled directly toward Erika. She stopped filming. Her eyes widened. “È in fiamme!” Sally burst out laughing. “It’s not on fire!” Erika backed away through the haze. “There is smoke!” “It’s been asleep for years!” “That does not make smoke better!” Giorgio was laughing now too. Sally rested both hands happily on the steering wheel while the little Fiat rattled beneath her. “It’s fine,” she called through the open window. “It’s just waking up.” She looked across the faded dashboard, listened to the engine clattering away in front of her, and grinned. Her Fiat. It actually worked. -- Sally lay stretched across the lounger with a ridiculous smile still fixed on her face. She had actually driven the Fiat. Not far, and not fast, but enough. After getting the engine running, they had pumped up the tires, checked them as best they could, and cautiously moved the car around the yard. Sally tested the throttle, the brakes, the clutch, the steering. Nothing felt particularly refined, but everything seemed to work. Mostly. The car clearly needed attention. The brakes rasped when she used them, the idle occasionally wandered, and there were enough little vibrations and noises to keep her from pretending the Fiat had somehow become perfect merely because it started. But it moved. That was enough for a first day. Eventually Lorenzo climbed into the passenger seat and told her to take it farther. Erika and Giorgio squeezed into the back, protesting the lack of space while contributing nothing useful, and Sally guided the little Fiat down one of the smooth dirt roads she remembered from her Land Rover lesson a few days earlier. She drove slowly, both hands on the wheel. The engine had warmed by then and sounded much happier. The rasp from the brakes remained, but the car stopped when asked. The steering had no assistance at all—heavier than anything Sally normally drove—but once moving, it felt wonderfully direct. Every little movement came back through the wheel. Every vibration belonged to the car. No screens. No driving modes. No computer deciding what she probably meant. Just Sally and the machine. She loved it. Beside her, Lorenzo sat comfortably with one arm resting against the door. “Well,” he said at last, sounding pleased, “now you have a gift from your visit to Tuscany.” Sally laughed softly. “I’m going to have to tell my father.” Lorenzo glanced at her. “You haven’t?” “No.” “What will he say?” “I have absolutely no idea.” Lorenzo smiled. “I will speak to him. Don’t worry.” That somehow made Sally laugh harder. “I’m not sure that helps.” From the cramped back seat, Erika leaned forward between them. “That was fun.” Sally glanced at her in the mirror. “You did all the watching.” Erika looked offended. “I made a documentary.” “Do I get creative rights?” “No.” Sally shook her head. “Excellent.” Giorgio laughed beside her. Sally eased the Fiat through another bend, keeping the speed low as the tires rolled over the pale dirt. “Maybe my car adventure will eclipse my mega-yacht holiday in Croatia.” “Oh, definitely,” Erika said. “You sound very sure.” “You had paparazzi in Croatia. Here you had Fabrizio.” Sally burst out laughing. Fair point. Later, after the Fiat had been returned safely to the farmhouse, Sally had hosed off years of dust and grime. The wash hadn’t transformed it. The paint was still faded, the chrome still old, and there were places where no reasonable amount of water was going to restore anything. But it looked different. Alive, somehow. It sat beneath the carport again beside the Land Rover and the green Panda, only now it no longer looked abandoned. It looked parked. Waiting. Part of the little collection again. Now Sally lay beside the pool, sunglasses pushed up on her head, replaying the morning without meaning to. The stubborn battery. Fabrizio’s approving brava. The first cough from the engine. Erika shouting that it was on fire. Lorenzo laughing from the terrace. Her first careful drive down the dirt road. She smiled again. An orange Lamborghini Aventador SVJ was extraordinary. But this was different. This little Fiat had a story before Sally ever touched it, and now she had become part of that story too. Her own classic car. A faded blue Fiat 127 from a farmhouse in Tuscany. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine a better first one. -- It had finally been decided that the girls had simply had too much sun. By lunch, Sally had gone unusually quiet. Even the lasagna in front of her—something that normally would have earned Nonna’s full approval—was barely touched. Nonna noticed first. She frowned, leaned across the table, and pressed the back of her hand against Sally’s forehead. “Colpo di sole.” Sally blinked and looked up at her. Erika translated quietly. “Too much sun.” “I’m tired,” Sally admitted. That seemed obvious enough now that somebody had said it aloud. Nonna immediately slid a glass of water toward her. “Bevi.” Sally obeyed. She drank slowly while Nonna continued watching her with the grave attention usually reserved for much more serious illnesses. “Vai a riposare.” Isabella raised her eyebrows from across the table. “Are you okay?” Sally felt mildly offended by the amount of concern gathering around her. “Yeah. I’m fine.” She rubbed one eye. “I think I’m just tired. A lot of excitement.” That was probably true. The Fiat. The trip into town. The heat. The pool. The sun. Running around the property. Very little rest. Apparently it all added up. “Take it easy this afternoon,” Isabella said. “Especially if you want to go to Firenze tomorrow.” Erika nodded solemnly. “Today we relax. Stay inside.” Sally looked at her. “You were in the pool ten minutes ago.” “That was before medical advice.” Sally almost smiled. “Right.” Nonna tapped the table once, reinforcing the verdict. “Riposo.” There would clearly be no appeal. Sally pushed her chair back and stood. “Bene.” She looked at Nonna and gave her a small smile. “Grazie.” Nonna’s expression softened immediately. Sally headed upstairs, suddenly realizing that the idea of a cool room, closed curtains and several hours of doing absolutely nothing sounded much better than she wanted to admit. Maybe they had a point. -- Upstairs, Sally closed the door behind her and stood still for a moment. The room felt wonderfully cool after the heat outside. She undressed slowly, moving with the lazy heaviness that had settled into her limbs at lunch, and put on a diaper almost without thinking about it. If she was actually going to sleep, there was no point pretending she didn’t know what she needed. She considered pulling on a T-shirt. Then decided even that seemed like too much work. Sally dropped onto the bed in just the diaper and stretched out across the sheets, enjoying the faint breeze drifting through the open window. Somewhere outside, a bird called repeatedly. Farther away came the soft, indistinct sounds of the farmhouse. She was exhausted. Unfortunately, her mind had not received the message. The Fiat. It was hers. Actually hers. Sally smiled at the ceiling. That still felt ridiculous. Only yesterday it had been an abandoned little car beneath the terrace, something Erika barely remembered existed. This morning Sally had pulled out its dead battery, gone into town with Giorgio, come back with fuel and a replacement, coaxed the engine into life and then driven it herself. The little car worked. Not perfectly. The brakes needed attention. There were noises she didn’t understand. Fabrizio would probably find a list of things wrong with it the length of Sally’s arm. But it worked. And perhaps what pleased her almost as much was that Erika had enjoyed the whole thing. Sally had worried, briefly, that she might spend the day obsessed with the Fiat while Erika sat around bored, wondering why her friend had come all the way to Tuscany only to disappear beneath the hood of an old car. Instead, Erika had turned the entire event into entertainment. She had filmed everything, laughed at Sally’s dirty hands, documented the failed starts, nearly declared the car on fire and looked almost as triumphant as Sally when the engine finally caught. Then, from the back seat during their first little drive, she had looked genuinely delighted. That mattered. Sally rolled onto her side and curled slightly into the bed. The breeze moved across her bare shoulders. She closed her eyes. The Fiat followed her anyway. She pictured it in Switzerland. Somehow she would get it there. Transporter, trailer, whatever paperwork was necessary. Adam would know. Or Theresa would know whom to call. Somebody always knew. And then she could park it beside her father’s black Ferrari F40. A faded blue Fiat 127 beside an F40. Sally’s mouth curved into a sleepy smile. That alone made the entire idea worthwhile. Her thoughts drifted toward tomorrow. Florence. She had been before, but this would be different. No carefully planned family itinerary. No obligation to admire every important painting merely because somebody had spent five hundred years insisting it was important. She and Erika could simply walk. Ponte Vecchio. Santa Maria del Fiore. Maybe the Galileo museum; Sally had heard it was interesting without requiring an entire day of cultural endurance. A little shopping, inevitably. Gelato, certainly. And there was that restaurant she remembered—or thought she remembered—not far from the cathedral, tucked down into a cramped basement where the tables sat almost too close together and everything smelled wonderful. Maybe it was still there. She would find out. Sally shifted again and pulled part of the sheet loosely across herself. Her thoughts became less organized. Fiat. Florence. Erika. Home. Oskar. Something about Giorgio complaining tomorrow. The black Ferrari next to the blue Fiat again. And then nothing. Sleep arrived without permission. Deep, dreamless and complete. Sally slept well into the afternoon, curled comfortably across the bed with the door closed and the window open, while the Tuscan air moved lazily through the room. No plans. No recovery. No school. No responsibilities. No questions about what came next. Just sleep. Plain, old-fashioned sleep in a quiet farmhouse in Tuscany, with Erika somewhere nearby—probably stretched across her own bed editing footage for whatever ridiculous social-media masterpiece she intended to create from Sally Weiss and the Old Centoventisette. For a few hours, Sally needed absolutely nothing else.

Can't wait!

Very exhausting. Just wait and see...