The holiday booking had come as a welcome surprise for Nico, almost a miracle. His little Italian hotel had been struggling since the pandemic, but now his five guest rooms were going to be fully occupied for three weeks in June. He couldn’t wait for Hotel Splendido to be filled with chatter and laughter again.
The booking was made under the name of Ginny Splinter for five people in total, arriving on four different flights. It would take several trips to the airport to pick everyone up. Not that he minded too much. If the guests liked his hotel, they’d hopefully spread the word so he could start to earn a living again.
Nico couldn’t help flourishing his right arm when he practiced greeting them. “Welcome to my hotel,” he said, under his breath. “Greetings, my home is your home.”
He was very proud of his bedrooms. They were all comfortable with lemon-painted walls, and trendy coral duvet covers and curtains. The compact ensuite bathrooms each had blue and white ceramic wall tiles, a toilet and small shower enclosure. Along the upstairs corridor and his downstairs hallway, framed photos on the walls showed a younger Nico with his mamma, papà, nonna and nonno.
He personally cleaned each of his rooms daily and picked fresh flowers to place in small glass bottles on the bedside tables. He made fresh bread and hoped the delicious aroma would reach the Vigornuovo village where tourists might lift their noses, sniff and head to his hotel in a trance.
Unfortunately, his seventeen-year-old daughter, Loretta, didn’t share the same fondness for Nico’s decor. “Nothing saysBenvenutilike our dead relatives,” she often said with a roll of her eyes. “They might give our guests nightmares. Why can’t we update our hotel, to make it more modern?”
Nico could admit some of their relatives looked rather stern, even angry. To him, they showed Splendido was a place where he treated everyone like family.
That morning, he had washed all his bedsheets and duvet covers and hung them on the washing line in the courtyard, to dry in the early morning heat. He sat down at one of the white outdoor tables to eat breakfast with Gianfranco, a fellow hotel owner and his best friend since childhood. They often spoke to each other in English to practice the language.
Breakfast was treated lightly in Northern Italy. The two men drank cappuccinos and ate cornetti, a croissant with a light sugar glaze. Nico could never understand why anyone would want to cram their stomachs full of eggs, cheese, ham, yogurt and bacon as soon as they woke up.
He liked to feel streamlined and his waist had remained the same size since he was Loretta’s age. There were only a few strands of silver in his flock of dark curls.
“Why are you still using the old bed linen?” Gianfranco asked, eyeing the washing line. “It isn’t nice.”
“It is good quality.”
“It is orange.”
“Coral,” Nico corrected. “A pretty color.”
Gianfranco shook his head. He was squat with bulging eyes and a wispy goatee beard. Despite his stalwart appearance, he could be moved to tears easily, making his big eyes glisten like wet marbles. “In my humble expert opinion, guests like everything to be white. We only have white pillow cases and white sheets at the Grand Hotel Castello Bella Vista.”
“I am running a hotel, not a dental surgery. My guests like color.”
“Iknowwhat they want.” Gianfranco nodded sagely. “And it’s not tangerine sheets. They want fine bedding and sophisticated activities to stimulate their minds and bodies. A coffee, brioche and a nice view are no longer enough. I have asked you several times to come and see my new spa, to give you inspiration.”
If anyone had overheard the two men, they might think they were shouting at each other, rather than having a normal, friendly conversation. Their discussion was accompanied by much gesturing of their hands.
Gianfranco had added a huge extension and turrets to the roof of his once-modest pensione and now claimed it was a castle. He served a sumptuous buffet breakfast that included twenty types of cereal and even champagne and caviar.
Nico preferred his own modest offering ofcaffè latte, bread served with butter and jam,fette biscottateand fruit. Even though Gianfranco’s hotel was usually fully occupied, he wanted his own guests to sit down at the oak kitchen table that had been in his family for centuries, to enjoy traditional food.
Nico also didn’t want to risk the feelings of awe, envy and inadequacy that Gianfranco’s new facilities might conjure up. He knew Splendido needed an update, though not in such a drastic way.
The two men took a moment to sip their cappuccinos and admire their surroundings. Hotel Splendido nestled in a valley between two lush hills, one mile along the slender road leading into the pretty medieval village of Vigornuovo. Gianfranco’s castle hotel sat on top of one of the hills, gleaming white in the sunshine.
Vigornuovo had a pretty square with a few cafés that weren’t bothered too much by tourists, who preferred the art and beauty of Florence, the romance of Venice or the golden coastline of Lido di Jesolo. The village had enjoyed a swell in popularity a few years ago when scenes from a Hollywood movie,A Glorious Escape, were filmed in the streets, featuring the weathered stone fountain and the river that twinkled like a length of glittery blue ribbon.
The lead actor, Tim Vincenzo, was supposedly a heartthrob, but Nico and Loretta saw him sitting outside a café one day and he looked surprisingly haggard. He had been smoking a cigarette and lowered his sunglasses, as if to look at Loretta’s legs. Nico had thrown the actor a disapproving stare, especially because his daughter had just turned fifteen at the time, but Vincenzo just smirked and flicked ash onto the tablecloth.
Gianfranco studied Nico and raised a bushy eyebrow. “My offer is still on the table,amico mio,” he said pointedly.
Nico wiped away a milky moustache. Each time he saw Gianfranco, his friend offered to buy Splendido. Each time, the price dropped by a few thousand euros. “My hotel is not for sale. You know I made the promise,” he said.
Nico let his thoughts slip back in time, to four years ago. His eyes stung as he recalled sitting at his beloved mother’s side as she lay dying in bed. In the midst of her last breaths, she had squeezed his hand. “Splendido is yours now, Nico. Never sell it.”
“I promise, Mamma,” he whispered, just before she slipped away.
His wife, Maria, had been incensed when he’d told her of his mamma’s last wish. “Nico,” she scolded, “I am sorry your mother has gone, but we’ve talked about moving to the coast. A seaside hotel will attract more tourists and Loretta can play on the beach.”
“I didn’t promise this,” Nico said. “There is much we can do with Splendido.”
