I attempt to reach about half the wattage of the boy’s smile to make up for my incompetence. His curly dark hair is overgrown and he runs both hands through it doing nothing to keep it in check. He stands and gestures to my body.
“Allora, did you bring a bathing suit?” the boy asks in perfect English.
Note to self: everyone is multilingual except you.
“Yes, I did, but—”
“Is it a bikini?”
His thick eyebrows lift over his perfectly rounded brown eyes. The picture of innocence.
“Massimo, entra in casa prima che ti colpisca con questo cucchiaio!” Nina’s voice reaches us loud and clear from inside the house as the shutters fly open. She’s waving a spoon, and a moment later the smell of garlic and olive oil smack me straight in the gut. I hear it growl in response. The Beast whines and tilts his head at me.
“Calmati, Mamma. Sto arrivando!” he shouts back, then turns his white teeth back toward me like a shark and sweetly says, “Va bene. Bikini later then, no?”
I don’t even have a chance to answer the little creep before he’s scampering through a huge set of wooden double doors that have been left ajar. The Beast chases after him, tail wagging like crazy.
Nina points at me with her spoon, then points to a tiny faded stone building at the far side of the pool. “There, Ava. That is the guest house. You’ve now met my son Massimo. Che fortunata!” She rolls her eyes heavenward and I laugh. Had to give it to the kid. Hitting on an older woman was creepy, but it meant he had some balls. They might not have descended yet, but—
“You seem to have lost James, no? The guest house is open.” Nina says.
I turn my attention to the guest house and the way it dangles precariously over the edge of the hill, threatening to spill over like the pool water.
“Sì, I lost lo stronzo,” I murmur. “Grazie, Nina,” I say louder.
She gives me a knowing smile. “Dinner at eight, but I left you a tray of formaggi, prosciutto, e pane in il piccolo fridge,” she says, and salutes me with the spoon, then disappears back inside the huge window frame.
I turn to my temporary home. It’s small. Quaint. Also covered in ivy. A huge glass double door takes up most of its front. Not a great entryway to protect from peeping Massimos.
I carefully make my way around the water, though taking a plunge wouldn’t be an entirely unwelcome break from this heat. This definitely isn’t the modern apartment in the city center that Pastore helped me rent, but there are worse things than a little voyeurism and some olive oil–scented country air. I’ll just have to adjust some of my itinerary with the distance from town. But surely sharing housing with the dean should give me some invaluable insight into the seminar.
I hear my mom laughing at this shitstorm of a day and for the thousandth time in twenty-four hours I can’t help but wish she were here beside me, in this place she spoke of with awe, the place she made me swear to visit. She’d smile and pull me close and tell me again that “Life doesn’t care about our plans, love.” Life certainly didn’t care about hers. But that’s just a reason to plan harder. Control what you can.
I take in a deep, humid breath and yank open the heavy glass door with a heave. I’m welcomed with a blast of frigid air. No problems with this air-conditioner obviously. The inside is surprisingly spacious. The clean white cathedral ceiling stretches high above my head, the joints and beams stained a soft grayish-brown. Or perhaps not stained at all. There are built-in bookshelves on both walls that flank me, books of every color stacked neatly together, interrupted only by a few windows and a litany of black-and-white photographs that are framed with the same barnwood that runs throughout the space. The natural light streams over the cloud-like comforter on the huge iron bed. There’s a thin wooden door in the corner that must lead to the bathroom. But the true selling point of the space is the view. The far wall is a plane of spotless glass, a window overlooking the endless slopes and soft summits. I trace the rolling lines with my finger in the air and let out a sigh.
Perhaps I was a bit hasty with my negotiations with lo stronzo. I wonder if I’ll see him working around the farm before he returns to sleep under whatever rock he came from. I picture him shearing the sheep—his huge bronzed hands moving back and forth over the wool. Though he definitely didn’t smell like a shepherd. He smelled fresh—spicy clean. Ugh. I told him that. In English. A language he clearly understands.
I curse Tammy and her pills one last time and shake myself out of the cringe to close the door behind me, not wanting to lose any more cold air. Obviously, my intrusive farmhand thoughts mean I’m delusional from the hours upon hours of travel. Or maybe they are sent from deep within my subconscious as a revenge plot against the man across the pond.
I head straight for the mini fridge, plucking a piece of cheese off the tray Nina left on the top rack and nibbling at it as I kick off my shoes. It’s sharp and flaky with a nutty aftertaste, and I want to gnaw on an entire wheel, but the bed is calling. I fall into the down pillows and let them fold around me. A night or two here might be a nice adventure—something to write home about on Mom’s postcard that’s burning a hole in my purse lining. Something to distract me from the lingering hurt and rage I feel toward Ethan right now. The sting of betrayal at the thought that Tammy might have known his intentions. The dread of telling my father about the job I accepted without consulting him. I consider using my five minutes just to call and curse Ethan out, but I’m too exhausted to even move, let alone creatively cuss. And my phone is in my purse at least three feet away.
My eyes feel so heavy. Jet lag and hangover are teaming up to swallow me. I can hear them high-five beneath the throbbing at my temple. And though the worst thing I can do is submit, there’s not an ounce of fight left in me.
The air whirs softly from the sleek split AC unit above the bed. A little catnap and then—more food. Let’s see what all this buzz surrounding authentic Italian cuisine is about. Just as I’m about to give in to the sleep, my eyes catch a pop of color above the desk. A bouquet of gorgeous sunflowers. My mom’s favorite. I drift off with the image of the buttery petals on the inside of my lids.
SEI
James
We are well into our secondi piatti when the American graces us with her presence.
She’s freshly showered, her skin still flushed from the heat of the high-pressure triple showerhead I installed in the guest house last year. I love that thing. I imagine our guest loving it as well and shift in my seat, trying to refocus on the plate in front of me but failing miserably.
Her hair is blown out around her shoulders, no more messy travel bun, and the navy dress she’s sporting is tailored perfectly to every curve on her body like a second skin—so well fitted that I can perfectly make out the outline of her phone in her hip pocket. Could she not just leave that thing in the guest house? She’s probably waiting for it to ring at any second with a groveling idiot on the other end begging her for forgiveness.
My uncle clears his throat and taps my arm, and I notice he and Massimo are standing to welcome her. I push up from my seatexpecting to see her eyebrows lifted at me with haughty disdain, but she’s not even looking my way. Her hand is outstretched to my uncle.
“Dean Russo,” she says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for hosting me.”
