If I knew I held such a powerful bargaining chip, I would have laid out their resistance more strategically. “For someone who’s only here to keep up appearances, you have a lot of opinions.”
She laughs. “God, you’re right. It’s my brain. I can’t turn it off for more than a glass of wine.” She leans back in her chair again. “Am I a spinster workaholic or am I doggedly ambitious? The line is so thin for a woman, is it not?”
I know what she means, but I don’t trust her enough to let her bond with me. “Well, no one here thinks you’re a spinster, do they?”
She laughs breezily. “True. It must be so odd to you that I agreed to Ben’s little lie, but I did it for him. He’s a good person. He’s been good to me, and I know how important it is to him to keep his mother happy. If my being here helps, then I’ll be here, pretending all is well.”
I take a sharp breath in. What is with everyone and their surprise altruistic intentions around here? Still, there’s an uneasiness in my gut. “But eventually, your breakup will become public, no? Aren’t you worried his family, his father, will be angry with you for lying?”
Sutton smiles softly and the politician in me can’t help but wonder if there’s a scheme cooking beneath her effervescent surface. “No, I am not worried about that.”
The doors fling open and Benito returns. He wordlessly sits and takes a long drink from his wine glass. Sutton passes him the bottle and he refills his glass. “Do you have it all settled, then?” she asks.
Benito tosses back another sip of wine. “Nothing is settled.”
Sutton leans forward so her arm is resting on the table, her hand dangerously close to grazing Benito’s. “Don’t you think you’re being a tad stubborn? I know you and your father have a complicated relationship, but he swore to me he’s only returning because he intends to make things right.”
Benito rolls his eyes. “Is that why he brought you? To be the messenger because he knew I wouldn’t talk to him?”
“No,” Sutton says with a bit of an edge to her voice. “I came here because you asked me not to tell Raffaello what’s going on with us, and it would’ve raised red flags had I declined his offer.”
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with winning favor with the boss,” Benito says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. They’re bickering, and I feel like I’ve suddenly become an innocent bystander in the middle of a lovers’ spat.
“I should go to my room,” I say, pushing my chair out. “There’s clearly a lot you all need to work out, and I wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place, so. . .” I stand up. “Nice to meet you, Sutton.”
“Izzy, wait.” Benito stands too. He glances at Sutton and back at me. “Didn’t you have a. . . matter to discuss?” He looks at me pointedly.
It’s an invitation. I could be alone with him. It’s an enticing idea, but Sutton is here, his father is here. I don’t know that there’s a point. “Uh. . . yeah,” I say. “But it can wait.”
Benito takes a step closer to me and lowers his voice. “Are you sure? We can talk. If you want.”
I look back at Sutton, who is watching us closely. “No. It’s ok. I’ll see you later.”
Benito takes another step closer to me and places his hand on my arm. I look at it and he quickly pulls his hand back. Sutton’s eyes widen, her interest piqued. “Good to meet you, Izzy. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
I go up to my bedroom and collapse on my bed. My phone dings and I glance over at it, the screen full of notifications. I open the News app and nearly drop my phone on my face. There’s a headline screaming at me in bold typeface.
Former Congresswoman Isabella Rhodes Trades Washington for the Italian Countryside.
Chapter Twelve
Ousted Congresswoman Isabella Rhodes Trades Washington for Italy—The New York Times
Under the Umbrian Sun? Isabella Rhodes is doing her best Diane Lane in rural Italy—The Cut
CAUGHT?! Isabella Rhodes Ran Away to Italy—TMZ
Traitor Rhodes loses her election so she moves to Italy? Pathetic!, an online comment from a former colleague of mine.
We’re proud of Izzy for following her heart to Italy to start her next chapter of greatness, my dad’s Facebook status.
The news is everywhere. There are memes, there are think pieces, there is discourse. This is a nightmare. A cheap gossip rag published it first—a blurry photo of me in my bright yellow sundress, carrying a loaf of breadand a bouquet of fresh flowers down the cobblestone streets of La Musa. I look chic and European, honestly, but the invasion of privacy still makes me squirm.
Someone in La Musa is watching me. Or at the very least, someone recognized me, snapped a picture, and leaked it to the highest bidder. Everyone back home knows where I am, and suddenly the transatlantic flight and two-hour train ride doesn’t feel far enough away.
My phone erupts with a FaceTime call. I click the green button and both my parents appear onscreen. They’re huddled next to each other at the old wooden kitchen table my father built when I was little. Something about the image of the two of them there, in the room I’ve known since I was born, makes me long for home. The first twinge of homesickness after weeks of relishing my escape. Suddenly I’m longing for the big bay window that looks out into the backyard and the jacaranda tree that blooms bright purple in the spring.
“Ah, our daughter does still have time for us.” My mother purses her lips and shakes her head.
