I hand her both. “Please make sure your mom knows they’re from me. We haven’t seen much of each other this week, and I want her to know I appreciate her hospitality and her letting me stay in her home.”
Lucia laughs breezily. “Please, you are doing her a favor. She loves having guests.” She winks at me. “Benito!” She yells something in Italian at him and he quickly jumps into action, walking over to me with a bottle of wine and an empty glass. Lucia pats him on the head like an obedient golden retriever before disappearing inside, leaving me and Benito alone.
“Your sister is lovely,” I say.
Benito hands me the glass, now full of wine. “She’s demanding.”
“And you bend to her every will. I didn’t think you were someone to follow another’s orders.”
Benito scoffs, “When I was a boy it was either that or psychological torture, so I am conditioned.”
“Pavlov’s little brother,” I say.
Benito grabs a glass off a nearby table and pours wine for himself. “More like the Stanford Prison Experiment. No one’s a bigger perpetrator of forceful power and manipulation than an older sister.”
I nod. “Remind me to thank my parents for only having one.”
There’s an awkward silence. I take in the splendor of the yard. There’s a swing hanging off a tree, a patio with antique furniture, a sparkling swimming pool, a giant table where I assume we’ll be eating, and a spectacular view of the countryside.
The French doors to the kitchen swing open and Anita emerges carrying a large platter of pasta. “If only I had two strong children to help me serve,” she says. Benito dutifully walks over to her and takes the platter from her hands. Lucia and Benito take turns disappearing inside and returning with more food: whole branzino, fresh greens, homemade gnocchi, caprese with freshmozzarella di bufala.
I wonder if we’re expecting more people, but when I remember the trays of leftovers in Anita’s fridge last week, I realize this is par for the course. I dig in when instructed and am once again knocked over by the perfection of Anita’s cooking. I wash down an especially generous helping of pesto gnocchi with a glass of crisp Umbrian white wine.“Benito and Lucia, you have no idea how lucky you are to have grown up with a world-class chef for a mother,” I say. “My mother was a great mom, but her culinary expertise started and ended with a takeout menu.”
Lucia grins. “Lucky indeed. Though Benito, not so much. Was the food this good at St. George’s?”
Benito shakes his head. “Hardly.”
“You can blame your father for that,” Anita says. “I was perfectly content to have both of you educated here.” It’s the first time I’ve heard Anita mention the father who is not dead but gone.
Lucia and Benito share a look. Lucia reaches for the bottle of wine at the center of the table and refills her glass. “So, Izzy,” she says, changing the subject. “Have you explored much of Italy since you’ve been here?”
“Not really,” I say. “I’ve been focused on getting settled. I haven’t really thought of where else I’d go.”
“You must,” Lucia says. “It’s a beautiful country, and La Musa is perfectly central for exploring. Two hours to Rome, two hours to Florence.”
“You sound like one of your tourism brochures, Lucia,” Benito grunts.
Anita leans in toward me. “Lucia and her husband run a guided tour company out of Siena.”
“Siena, the Ohio of Tuscany,” Benito quips.
Lucia waves off Benito, dismissing him. “Don’t listen to him. He’s barely been anywhere in Italy except the airports.”
“I’ve been to Siena,” I say. “I loved it.”
“Thank you, Izzy,” Lucia says, passing me the bottle of wine.
“I was actually thinking about going to Rome this weekend,” I say. It was half an idea, really, because I was watching aHousewivescast trip to Rome last night. “I’ve been once but only for a few hours, and it was such a blur.”
“That’s a wonderful idea!” Lucia says. “Roma offers so much. History, culture, fabulous food—”
Benito scoffs. “Lucia, she said she is going, you do not have to sell her on it.”
“And maybe I should be selling you,” she says, flicking her wrist at Benito. “When was the last time you were anywhere in Italy besides La Musa or Milano withpapà?”
Benito looks down at his plate. “I thinkMammatook us to the Uffizi in Florence the summer I was 16.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
