Benito shuffles from one foot to the other. “It’s Sunday.”
I stare at him, waiting for more. “Thank you for the reminder.”
He shakes his head. “My mother wants me to invite you to family lunch. It’s a whole ordeal every Sunday. My sister’s taken the train down from Siena. You are under no obligation if you do not want to—”
“I’d love to come,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been daydreaming about your mom’s pasta all week, so I’m happy to indulge in round two.”
“Great.” Benito nods.
“Noon?” I ask.
Benito nods again. “Noon. Out back.” He smiles briefly, flashing a quick wave before walking off.
I put the phone back up to my ear. “Sorry, I’m back.” I brace for Marisol’s response.
“You failed to mention a Benito.”
“He’s the mayor,” I say, lowering my voice. “And he’s horrible, so it wasn’t worth bringing up.”
Marisol goes quiet for a moment, and I hear typing then clicking in the background. She gasps. “Wait, he’s hot.”
“How did you find him that fast?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” she says. “What’s his deal?”
“He has a girlfriend,” I say.
“No, I mean, why is he in your house?” I can hear the smile in Marisol’s voice.
“He lives here,” I say. “This is his mom’s house.”
I can hear Marisol calculating in her head. “Interesting,” is all she says.
“Not really,” I say, before she can imply there’s reason to be happy there’s a hot man living in the bedroom next door. Not that I think Benito’s hot. I mean, I do, but not that it particularly matters. “Ok, I have to go. Try to get some sleep.”
Marisol laughs. “You know I won’t.”
It’s warm and humid as I walk back to the house from Valeria’s wine shop. It’s thankfully open on Sundays, because even though the Farentino home is technically my home, I don’t want to show up to lunch empty-handed. My yellow sundress keeps sticking to the back of my thighs, which is unfortunate because I don’t have a free hand with a bottle of wine in one and a bouquet of flowers that I picked up at the farmers market on the way home in the other.
I tuck the bottle of wine under my arm when I reach the large oak door and quickly adjust my dress before walking inside. A beautiful, warm-looking young woman I don’t recognize opens the door before I can. I purport her to be Benito’s sister. “Hi—Buongiorno,” I say.
She smiles and of course has one of those smiles that lights up her whole face. “Buongiorno!You must be Izzy?” Her voice is dripping in that same caramelly accent as Anita, and I realize she looks a lot like Benito, especially when the sun hits her hazel eyes.
“Hi, yes, and are you—?”
“Benito’s sister, Lucia.”
“Piacere,” I say.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you. My brother speaks highly of you.”
I look around. Did I accidentally walk into an alternate universe? “He does?”
She widens the door and gestures for me to enter. “Everyone’s out back.” I walk through the door and am immediately hit with the intoxicating aromas of Anita’s cooking. Garlic, basil, onion, pepper. My stomach growls.
Lucia leads me through the front of the house, past the staircase with the photos, through a formal dining room and a grand living room, and another hallway with multiple doors, a part of the house I’ve respectfully avoided, until we’re finally in another living room with floor-to-ceiling glass doors that are flung open to flow seamlessly into the backyard.
Lucia reaches out her arms. “Let me take that,” she says, gesturing toward the wine and the bouquet.
