Nodding, I say, “Brilliant, yes. And how do I wake them?”
Leo mutters, “We could brew them tiny mugs of coffee.”
Folding my lips between my teeth, I stifle a laugh while Mrs. Bianchi glares at both of us.
“Take off ice. They wake up,” she huffs, as though I’m even more of anidiotathan her husband.
“Got it. Remove ice two hours before your ceremony,” I say. “Bring box to beachfront. Open box after your service ends and release the butterflies.”
Picking up a guest request form, I start to fill it in, giving her a confident nod. “We’ll make sure to look after your butterflies. Please enjoy the beginning of your stay with us.”
“Grazie. Grazie mille,” Mr. Bianchi says, smiling way too much for a man in his position.
When they turn to leave, he tries to touch her arm, but she recoils quicker than Melania Trump. Oh, dear, good luck with starting over, buddy.
Leo, who is standing next to me says, “So, married life, hey?”
“Looks just amazing,” I answer, watching them walk out of the lobby. “Do you mind finding a bag of ice and adding it to the butterflies for me?” I glance up at him and see a strained expression.
“Right. Yes. I’ll just go get some ice, then open this box and hope no flying insects dart out at me.”
“Oh, I forgot. You’re scared of butterflies, aren’t you?”
“No,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Not scared. I just…hate them with a passion and don’t ever want one to fly into my mouth. Or near me, really. Or be shown on the telly. Especially not close up where you can see their disgusting hairy little bodies. But it’s not like I have a phobia or something. I mean,I knowthey can’t harm me in any way…”
“Oh, well then you’re totally fine. That doesn’t sound like an irrational reaction at all,” I say with a small grin.
“Precisely. Which is why I’m going to go find some ice for my new little buddies here.”
“You better take damn good care of those butterflies,” Rosy, who has managed to sneak up on us, says, causing us both to start. “Those two aren’t just any guests. He’s a famous Italian movie producer, and she has her own daytime talk show. This thing has to go off without a hitch, or we’ll pretty much lose every Italian traveler for years to come. And you,” she says, giving me a pointed look, “can’t exactly afford to mess up after the whole studying on the job thing.”
Oh, perfect, because this is what I need right now. More insanity to add to my already heaping bowl of crazy noodles. “No problem, Rosy. We’re on it.”
“Yes, ma’am. We will take very good care of these little sleeping beauties and have them up and ready to delight the Bianchis right on time.”
“You better, because if anything goes wrong, heads will roll.”
***
An hour later, I’m standing at my desk, discreetly studying tortes when I catch sight of my mother walking toward the lobby.
“Mum, what are you doing here?” I say, hurrying out to meet her. The last thing I need tonight is a scene, and by the expression on my mum’s face, she’s about to cause one.
“Well, that’s a lovely greeting,” she says, following me as I rush down the stairs into the night air and out of the way of Leo, who is loading a golf cart with luggage. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching us so I take a few more steps along the path toward the parking lot.
I stop near a lamppost, ignoring the moths flitting away near the light at the top. When I turn to my mum, I speak quietly. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just surprised to see you here.”
“You weren’t at the house to help with the guest favours,” she says, folding her arms.
“Amber told me not to come. I think she’s still upset about the hen’s weekend.”
“You could say that,” my mum says. “And she’s not the only one. Quite frankly, I’ve never been so disappointed in you. You said the most awful things about Dane—calling him stupid and suggesting that he’s going to drag her down with him? Then you tell her she’s going to turn into some vapid housewife.”
Oh God. Amber told Mumeverything. My gut drops to my toes. “I know. I never should have said any of it. I feel just sick about it.”
A couple meanders by holding hands, and my mother lowers her voice so now she’s speaking in a quiet rage. “You feel so sick that you’ve done exactly nothing about it in all this time?”
She’s got me there, doesn’t she? “At first, I was just giving her some space, then it got past the point of feeling right to approach her. Then it was so close to the day to work on the party favours that I figured I’d do it in person.” Now that I say it out loud, it sounds a lot less defendable.
