Martin was on the move now.
High above the Tyrrenian, the Lancia cut Gaussian curves in pastel and chrome.
The road hadn’t been clear before, but now it whistled with clarity’s electric heat.
“Martin,” Beatrice asked, “where are we going?”
“To God, my dear Beatrice. This is the Road to God”
Laughter uncertain.
Eyes drifting from the road, Martin’s hand sank deep into the glovebox’s dark leather.
“Amaretto, my love?”
Funny kind of pilgrimage, she thought.