His face lights up with surprise. “You spoke to Anita?” I nod. He sighs, running his hand through his hair in distress. I smile to myself to know I pegged him correctly too. “Fine then, follow me. We’ll get this sorted.” He starts walking back in the direction he came from and after a moment of confusion, Irealize I’m meant to follow him, my wheels even noisier as I speed up to catch him.
“She never listens to what I say,” he mumbles, not slowing down while I am audibly struggling to maneuver through the central part of La Musa, narrow streets full of restaurants, shops, bars, and cafés—it’s empty though and everything’s closed. It seems the tough economic times have affected La Musa even more than I realized, and worst of all, I have no idea where I’m going to fill my increasingly agitated stomach. The man continues ranting, and while it’s in English, I doubt he’s really speaking to me. “I said I would take care of things. I said not to worry and what does she do? Decides to let a random American lady stay in our home. I mean, she could be anyone. She could be a murderer, a thief. No sane person would come to La Musa on vacation in this day and age.”
“Oh, I’m definitely not sane,” I interject. He turns around to look at me, like he’s surprised I could hear his thoughts and he didn’t realize he was speaking out loud. “But I’m not here on vacation,” I say. “I like, live here now.”
He glowers again. “What do you mean, you live here now?”
“So. . . live, um,vivo in Italia. . . now.”
He shakes his head, still looking at me like I am enemy number one. “I understand you—”
“Izzy.”
He rolls his eyes, annoyed even at my name. “I understand you, Izzy, what I don’t understand is whyyou would move to La Musa and why you would move into my family’s home.”
The jet lag makes my brain slower, but I put the pieces together. “Anita is your mother.” The man nods. “We’re going to be roomies?”
He sighs heavily and continues walking, turning down a small street that leads out of the main part of town and toward the east end of the cliff. Based on the pictures, the house is massive, but I say a quick prayer that my room is on the complete opposite side from Anita’s son, lest he try to drive me insane to the point where I choose to leave before the end of my booked dates—three months, as I figure that gives me enough time to settle and find a place of my own—and I’ll be charged the full amount, the last of my savings, and be effectively homeless. The internet would have a field day if they ever found out.
He stops in front of a massive wrought-iron gate, but the metal bars aren’t enough to obstruct the view of the massive estate behind them. It is yellow, that detail I remembered correctly, and it’s three stories, each window framed in a blue molding, a vine traipsing up the front of the house from the palatial oak front door to the red tile roof. If this man wants me to go, he’s going to have to work hard, because I am never leaving.
He opens the gate and nods toward the front door. “Come on,” he says. “My mother’s inside. We can get this all sorted.”
I follow him through the great oak door into the foyer. It’s just as grand inside and yet, homey andwarm. The walls are painted a light blue, illuminated by the midafternoon sun as it drips through the copious amounts of windows, creating a second sky. The foyer leads to a marble staircase and the wall behind is crowded with family photos. I spot the man, presumably, as a child with an older sister and his two parents. “Does your whole family live here?” I ask.
“Just my mother and me. My sister isn’t far, in Siena, and my father’s been gone for six months.” He looks at one of the family photos over my shoulder. He’s probably 17 or 18, flanked by his mother and father on either side, his sister in a white dress.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No.” He chuckles. “He isn’t dead. Just. . . gone.” He whistles and points his head toward the back of the house. “Mamma’s in the kitchen.”
The kitchen’s less grand than the rest of the house but still charming. An Italian rustic theme that would make a Nancy Meyers aesthete weep. A petite woman I’d guess to be about my mother’s age stands over the sink, scrubbing a large casserole dish.
“Benito,” she starts, that must be his name, then says something in Italian I can’t make out. She turns to see me standing in her kitchen and raises her tone, shouting more words that are beyond the scope of my mostly transactional abilities.
Benito shouts more Italian back at her, they both shout, competing to see who can raise their voice and gesticulate the most until Benito finally raises his hands in defeat and then switches to English. “She’s here. Are you happy? You won.”
Anita stares him down then brushes her brown bob out of her eyes as she turns to me and puts on a cheery grin. “Isabella!” she says, walking toward me and taking my hand. “Piacere.I am so happy you’ll be staying with us.” Her voice drips in a caramelly Italian accent, much unlike the rigid way in which her son speaks.
“I’m so happy to be here,” I say.
“I’m sorry my son was so rude in not greeting you properly,” she says, sending another scolding look toward Benito. “Benito will show you to your room, and please let us know if you need anything at all while you are here.” She then mutters some vaguely threatening-sounding Italian back at Benito, who cowers like a dog caught eating something it shouldn’t in response.
“Where’s the closest restaurant?” I ask. “I think I’m going to pass out if I don’t eat within the next 10 minutes, and I’m sure Benito here doesn’t want to carry me down the cliff to the hospital.”
Benito stares at me with that now trademark disdain. “It’s Sunday.”
I don’t follow.
He tries again. “It’s Sunday.”
I shake my head. He rolls his eyes. “Everything’s closed. Well, Osteria Da Mario opens at dinner, but that’s. . .” he checks his watch, “. . . three hours away.”
My stomach churns in protest. I rack the last functioning parts of my brain and remember that in Italy, almost everything closes on Sundays, especially in a small town like this. “Oh, that’s fine,” I say. “I think I have an almond somewhere in my backpack.”
Anita waves her hands. “Nonsense. I have leftovers from Sunday lunch that would feed a small army.” She opens the fridge and digs around, producing tray after tray of food, naming each as she does. “Spaghetti alla carbonara, linguine alle vingole,cinghiale. . .”
I look to Benito with confusion. “Wild boar,” he says.
