“I will,” I say. “I booked three months in the room in your house.”
“You won’t make it,” he says. “Maybe you won’t go home, but you’ll never stay in La Musa.”
I hear it for the first time. An edge to his voice when he saysLa Musa. He hates it here. He’s the freaking mayor and he hates it here. “La Musa is beautiful,” I say.
“It’s decrepit,” he replies. He lowers his voice, “Maybe when you were here 20 years ago—”
I almost spit out my wine. “It was closer to ten.”
“La Musa used to be the shining gem of Umbria, but it’s fallen. Look around. No one comes here anymore. The population is aging. La Musa is on life support. In another 10 years, it’ll be nothing.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask again.
“Because I—” he starts.
“Because you had to be. Right,” I say.
He relaxes a bit, takes a deep breath, and sits up straight. “I don’t mean to be so harsh. It has its charm, but I’m realistic. Trust me. By the end of your three months, you’ll be hightailing it out of here, if not sooner.”
I shake my head. “You see a lack of commerce, I see community. You see nothing for miles, I see natural beauty all around us. You see ruins where I see a preservation of everything and everyone that’s come before us.”
“I didn’t say any of those things.” Benito shakes his head.
“Am I wrong?” I ask.
He runs his hand through his hair. “I refuse to believe my prison is your paradise.”
I laugh because it’s all just so, so dramatic. “I guess we’ll see who’s right in three months.”
The edge of Benito’s mouth twitches upward. “I guess we will.”
Chapter Four
By the next day, I am situated enough to want to go out and explore. While I was doing my essentials shopping, La Musa was more alive than it first seemed. The bread baker at thepanetteriasold me three loaves of ciabatta for three euro. I offered one to Anita as a thank you for feeding me with her leftovers, which she waved off. “You are always welcome to eat whatever’s in the house, Izzy,” she said, but my congressional sensibilities don’t allow me to accept generosity without giving something in return.
I bought six bottles of the locally made UmbrianRossofrom the wine shop and stashed them in the cupboard Anita set aside for me. The Farentinos are well stocked on linens, but I bought my own laundry detergent and soap, or at least what I could best guess was soap based on context clues. I updated my data plan this afternoon so I can use my translation app more reliably. By nightfall, I am sufficiently set up as a person who actually lives here, and yet completelyrestless at the idea of sitting in my bedroom for the third night in a row.
Bar Musa was the local hangout spot when I was a student, so I put on my one sort-of-sexy black dress and head out. It’s short and low cut and I immediately regret not wearing a jacket. It’s not like there’s a wealth of single men in La Musa. As Vincenzo pointed out to me this morning, there’s hardly anyone in La Musa who’s old enough to drive but too young for laugh lines, but I’ll take a silver fox widower if there’s one available. It’s been way too long since I’ve been touched, and my skin still burns from the memory of where Levi put his hands. I need a reset. I need new sensory memories. I need to get my yayas out, as Marisol would say. In Washington I was too careful; I knew a secret tryst could be the downfall of my entire career—how ironic that waiting for Levi had the exact same result. A sex scandal with barely any sex. It’s all totally unfair.
So, I’m in my short dress with as much cleavage as my B-cups can reasonably give. My “California bronde” hair blow-dried straight for once instead of tied back in my signature power bun. I wear black flats because I know better than to risk the near-fatal combination of heels, cobblestone, and alcohol. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a bar. I used to drink with the other freshmen members at a dingy dive bar in Capitol Hill, but once that became impossible, my social life basically disappeared.
Bar Musa’s tucked into a corner in the same piazza as theduomo. It’s a cozy spot with only half a dozentables inside but a patio that overflows when it’s nice out with locals and tourists alike.
Or at least, it used to be full of tourists.
With the picture Benito painted of the town, I expect it to be empty. I’m surprised when I walk inside to find it mostly full. I scan the room and see mostly couples huddled around the small tables, drinking wine and catching up. No single, hot, one-night-stand-worthy men yet, but it’s early.
I go to the bar and order a martini extra dry. The bartender nods through my shaky Italian and repeats the order back in English, to which I humiliatingly nod. Once I have my drink, I settle into a chair at the end of the bar. Back when I had anonymity, I used to love going to bars by myself. There was a bird-themed local haunt near my parents’ house in Beachwood with red vinyl booths and a long wooden bar. I’d sit there and eavesdrop on the conversations between washed-up celebrity has-beens, weirdo Hollywood locals, and performers from the comedy theater next door. Now, I can barely make out abrindiamofrom agrazie. Maybe coming here alone was a bad idea. I wonder what Benito’s doing tonight—but he’s not exactly good company.
“Izzy?” The sound of my name sends a chill down my spine. I turn to see where it’s coming from, expecting to find an American tourist who waywardly made their way to La Musa and is about to out my location to the world. Instead, I see Vincenzo holding hands with a stunning woman. She’s wearing a slip dress, with her dark, shiny hair in perfect curls past her shoulders.Vincenzo waves. “Izzy! Thatisyou!” He walks over and hugs me, the contact catching me off guard and nearly toppling me off the barstool. The woman with him barely reacts, which gives me the sense she knows this is something Vincenzo does all of the time.
“Hi,” I say to her, “I’m Izzy.”
Vincenzo facepalms. “Oh my goodness. I am so sorry. I did not introduce.” He drapes his arm around the woman. “This is my wife, Valeria.”
I stick my hand out, but Valeria quickly dismisses it, instead pulling me into a chic air-kiss on each cheek. “Izzy,” she says, “it is so wonderful to meet you. Vincenzo speaks so highly of you.”
I smile at her. I have talked to Vincenzo maybe three times, but it’s kind of her to say that. “Lovely to meet you,” I say. “And likewise. Vincenzo speaks of you and your girls constantly.”
