“Sì,”she finally said. Then she looked at my mother, reached out a hand, and the two women held on to each other. “You all do. I see more of our grandmother in Pnina and some in Charlotte. Let us not dissect the pieces out in the heat. We have time for that. The Contessa is waiting for you. She has been, for some time.” She peered over our shoulders, assessing our men, as a woman who knows she can have her pick does. But I found her gaze more judgmental, as if she was assessing them on our behalf. She seemed pleased.
“Oh,” my mother said, coming to herself. “Let me introduce you.”
Everett was the first to come up the line. She kissed each of his cheeks, man and woman both offering up the pleasures of finally meeting each other. Then came Travis, who risked a glance at me and then at Monica, seemingly comparing our features. He was never much of a talker.
“Ah!” She pulled Brando in, doing the cheek kisses with him too. “A Fausti. If it does not make me too brazen to say, the most beautiful I have seen yet. That family has the genetic makeup for all models. How isrrravaging Tito, by the way?” She lifted a full brow.
Our entire group followed behind her into the castle, laughing. Uncle Tito had a habit of drawing out hisrs in a menacing and passionate fashion, especially if he had too much to drink.
“Proprio come un venticinque anni,” my father said.Just like a twenty-five-year old.
Monica waved a dismissive hand. “Good to hear it! Ah!” She stopped suddenly. We all did. “Who has your bags?” She snapped her fingers and a woman came out of—the kitchen?—wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She told her to have Carlo see to our things.
“Our bags,” Brando repeated.
We all glanced at one another.
“You are spending the night, of course. The Contessa is having a party in your honor tomorrow night.”
“Oh,” my mother, Charlotte, and I said collectively. My “oh” came out more dubious than surprised. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to spend the night somewhere that Matteo had ties to. Or Maja for that matter. The last sighting of him was fresh enough in my head, and that had been years ago.
Monica’s face became thoughtful before she waved off the issue. “Non importa,” she said, sighing. “The Faustifamigliatravels with an entourage. You will make a list and one of them can return to Siena to retrieve your things. If Charlotte and Scarlett will allow me, I will dress them for the occasion.”
With the issue settled, we all moved on, and it was the first time I was able to take in the castle. It was much older than I first presumed, or parts of it still were. The castle was erected in the eleventh century, a placard on the wall stated. A piece of stone from the original building was set out in a crystal-covered box.
The interior was all beige stone, contrasted by wrought iron, some in intricate scroll pieces, others blunt, keeping with the medieval theme of the castle. Windows shimmered with sunlight, the iron seemingly melded inside the panes. It was clear to see that it was all hand forged, even the chandeliers with their slow-burning candles dripping wax.
I ran a fingertip over a mahogany chair, fit for a king. The furniture was fitting for a castle, all hand-and custom-made. Some of the pieces were so antique that it almost seemed impossible for them to still be standing. Rich and vintage was the simplest way to describe what I saw. It was so full of history that every hair on my body stood erect. A sudden chill made me rub my arms.
“This place has seen its fair share of history,” Monica said in Italian, gesturing with her hand at the old stone walls, gothic windows, and a fireplace that was all marble, two carved figures standing guard next to it.
“It has entertained plenty of important people of the ages,” she continued. “As well as medieval coats of arms and frescoes, one we still have today. And, of course, Matteo’s famous pieces.”
Brando stopped for a moment to investigate a plate-clad knight that stood in the hallway before the impressive library. Our group walked on, but Brando caught my arm. He gestured to Monica, who offered all she knew on the history of the place. “You are like her,” he said in Italian. “I see you in her features. Her eyes. Her lips. Maja, Monica, and Matteo—depending on the way you look is which one I see in you.”
“Do you know who she is?”
He stared ahead and it took him a moment to answer. “No,” he said.
“She’s the Marilyn Monroe of the Italian world,” I said. “A sex symbol here.”
He made a disgruntled noise in his throat and then muttered something that came out rude—figures—with the same phonetic expletive before it, I thought.
We caught up to the group in a minute, my father and Travis eyeing a painted picture of a man in a slouch hat, plume sticking up. He was handsome. Fine boned and long nosed, dark hair and green eyes.
Charles decided to take the moment into his own hands and started to cry.
“The poor lovie is starved,” Gwen cooed at him. He wasn’t having any of it. Right after she tried to stick the pacifier in his mouth to settle him, he spit it out.
“Is there a place for me to feed him?” Charlotte asked, taking him from Gwen.
Monica called a woman, one of many working the castle, to lead Charlotte and Gwen to a private room—she probably figured Charlotte breastfed him and wanted to give her some privacy—and my mother followed so she could freshen up. My father and Travis decided to take in more of the castle while we waited. Monica stopped a man who was walking by, another worker, and told him to show the men around.
That left the three of us.
Monica smiled and then motioned for us to take a seat in the library. It was all stone, wood, and marble. Columns that reminded me of the Pantheon gave the space a rich feel and led to cabinets and cabinets of vintage books, all behind glass panes.
“How is Rocco?” she asked, watching as I strolled past the cabinets of books.
