Graham’s expression shifted slightly, but he quickly shook his head. “That’s odd. Erin’s been helping me a lot with the invitation designs. Maybe she’s just caught up in something else? I’m sure she’ll get back to Yumi soon.”
“Could you give her a nudge if you talk to her? Just to let her know Yumi’s trying to reach her,” Aida asked, reassured by his response.
“Of course. Anything to help keep things on track. Speaking of which, when do we get to do the cake tasting? I’m actually looking forward to that.”
Aida laughed. “I’ll have Yumi call you to set up a time that works. We found the perfect baker.”
“Great. I can’t wait. And don’t worry about Erin; I’ll see what’s going on.”
“I knew I could count on you,” she said, relieved. “I miss you so much.”
“I miss you too. Can’t wait to have you back,” he replied. “Talk soon?”
“Absolutely,” Aida said, soaking in the familiar warmth of his words. After blowing him a kiss, she ended the call. Then she downloaded the Signal app and sent Yumi a GIF of Lucille Ball badly pouring champagne. Aida hated GIFs. They drove her mad with their endless looping, but Yumi loved them, and Aida got a good chuckle when her friend texted back a dozen exclamation points of surprise.
Afterward, Aida sent Erin a text, but by the time she reached the MODA palazzo, there was still no response, so she turned off her phone and slipped it into the bottom of her bag. Erin had always been quick to respond, especially when it came to wedding plans.
So why was she ignoring them now?
7
February 2019
Almost two months into Aida’s tenure with MODA, she and Trista boarded a train to Florence, occupying a first-class car all to themselves—a MODA standard, as Trista informed her. The revelation that all her journeys would either be in a privately reserved train car or by private jet brought a blend of amazement and guilt, especially considering the environmental ramifications. Yet, for someone like her, who thrived in bustling settings and loved people-watching, this exclusive mode of transport felt oddly isolating. Sure, there was always Trista, but sometimes Aida found solitude preferable to her aide’s dreary company. Nevertheless, the allure of champagne, gourmet food, and impeccable service wasn’t lost on her. As the Italian landscape blurred past her window, Aida made two silent pledges: never to become numb to such opulence and never to morph into an entitled snob.
Aida had thought they would be going over their itinerary on the way, but Trista settled into a seat at the back of the car and put headphones on, clearly not interested in chitchat. Aida found this strange, but she was also glad for the hour and a half until they arrived and headed to the hotel to dedicate to working on her personal research.
The Presidential Suite at the St. Regis Firenze was far too large, but it looked out upon the Arno and the famous PonteVecchio, where one of Aida’s favorite Renaissance artists, Benvenuto Cellini, was memorialized with a bust tucked amid all the gold shops lining the bridge. A suite between her room and Trista’s would be used for their headquarters while in the city. Trista busied herself setting up her laptop at the dining room table while Aida took in the view.
A rowing team was practicing on the muddy river, their colorful shirts made brighter by the sun. Aida watched them for a moment, delighting in the way they synchronized each movement of their oars, how their bodies moved in time, and the way the boat cut through the river and left ribbons of water behind. When she turned away, she found Trista watching her.
“What?” Aida asked her assistant.
“You were smiling,” Trista observed.
“There’s a rowing team out there. It’s nice to watch them.”
Trista cocked her head. “Why?”
Aida tried to explain, but Trista only looked at her blankly.
“I suppose this is why you are doing the research and I’m not,” she said.
Aida wasn’t sure what to make of that statement. “Anyone can delight in a small thing. I liked watching the rowers. It made me smile. Surely there are many things that you delight in, Trista.”
She frowned. “No, I don’t have time for that.”
“But you don’t need to have time—” Aida began, but Trista cut her off.
“The first place you’ll be going today is a car park.”
Aida paused a moment to take in what Trista was saying. “Wait, a parking garage?”
“The Garage Nazionale. Founded in 1959. It’s on the Via Nazionale, next to the Central Market in San Lorenzo. There are frescoes of cars all over the walls.”
Aida watched her pull up Google Maps.
“It’s a thirteen-minute walk. Once you’re settled, I’ll have lunch served and then we can go.”
