“No,” he says, looking across at my gawping face. “There was a change of plans.”
“It’s a good change.”
“This is an Airbnb she manages, and there was a cancelation,” he says.
“Is there... a pool?” I say, drooling.
“It has a pool,” says Leo, dropping his suitcase at his feet, opening something up on his phone. “‘Villa Sienna will help you avoid, as much as possible, contact with other people. A private cook, housekeeping, and gardener discreetly maintain the highest standard with utmost discretion during your stay. With both Sienna and Florence a short drive away, guests can enjoy all the excitement of Tuscany’s most famous towns and retreat to the quiet of their luxury villa in the hills.’”
“Oh, I love it. Ilovethe ivy,” I say, sighing.
“The private cook? That’s my aunt Chiara. So, notthatprivate,” he warns me.
“I look forward to meeting her,” I say.
Leo looks like he wants to say something, but then he closes his mouth, smiling wryly.
“The view from the back must be incredible,” I say, nodding toward the door. “Come on.”
But just as we’re about to enter, Leo’s aunt—she must be seventy at least—skids by us on an electric bicycle, long skirt blowing behind her as she flies around us and comes to a stop by the door. She dismounts with some difficulty, unhitches her basket, and then smooths down her flowery dress and striped apron. Her hair is cropped short but maintains some serious height under the blue scarf she has fixed around her head.
“Hey, Zia Chiara,” says Leo, looking like a bashful teenager.
“Il mio bambino,” she says, kissing Leo on the forehead and pinching his cheek so hard I wince on his behalf. Then she turns to me. “Lui e il mio prezioso piccolo principe.”
“Prince?” I whisper mockingly.
“And here is Olive Stone,” she says, with a less enthusiastic smile. There’s a slightly accusatory edge to thehere.
“That’s me,” I say, holding a hand up to shake hers.
She stiffly takes it, looking me up and down. I mean, she literally looks at me from my feet to my face and then nods as if she’s seen quite enough, thank you.
“Benvenuti,” she says, accent thick, scowl prevalent.
“Thank you,” I say, smarting a little from her not-very-welcoming welcome.
“Siete in anticipo, ma va bene. Non ci vorrà un momento,” she says, awkwardly motioning for us to go ahead.
“We’re early, but it won’t take long,” whispers Leo.
“I got that,” I whisper back.
“E poi potrai riposare,” Chiara says to Leo, pinching his cheeks again. “Oh, mamma mia, is good to see you, baby boy.”
The entrance area is small but leads to an enormous lounge with big arched windows looking out across the Tuscan countryside, and just ahead, a huge pool with stone tiles and a single upright ladder leading into the water.
“La piscina,” says Chiara unenthusiastically.
“I’ll race you,” I say to Leo, who laughs, but Chiara shakes her head.
“Sorry,” I say, eyes straight to the ground.
“La cucina,” she says, waving a hand toward a stone archway that leads into the most darling stone-tiled kitchen.
“Qui è dove ti siedi,” she says, waving outside to a large wood-and-canvas umbrella with a darling table-and-chairs area underneath. We follow her back into the house and she continues. “Qui è dove ti siedi.” The sofa.
“Qui è dove ti siedi.” Two snuggly chairs by a bay window.
