He continues, “But once we see Lake Como, after hours of nothing but road and concrete and dirt, it’ll be even more magnificent in comparison.” I remember when I had Giac’s optimism, his zest for life. I remember the first time I stepped foot in the Capitol as an elected representative: There was never a more beautiful sight in the world. How quickly those two years went by, how quickly that building became a monument for my failure. I never want anywhere in Italy to feel like that. Even the concrete highway is a serene tropical paradise in comparison.
He offers me control of the music and I put on an old Joni Mitchell album. The folksy soundwaves that are distilled into the echoes of the twisty canyon roads I call home trigger a deep sense of longing that’s been ebbing and flowing as of late, and I fold my knees into my chest. I never much liked being a kid; it felt stunting, and the impermanence of it all always made me anxious, but right now, I want to be seven again.
I want to be in the back seat of my dad’s old Volvo, the windows rolled down on the way home from a long day at the beach, with salt and sand stuck to my skin. I want to pluck an aloe leaf from our blooming garden and rub it over my sunburn while my mother sways to the music, stirring a fresh pot of homemade jam on the stove, eventually getting so caught up in her movement that the bottom of the pan burns. I want to watch a sunset nestled between the two of them, a cool shiver reaching down my spine as the light disappears behind the mountains, signaling that it’s time for bed, another perfect day done.
We arrive in Bellagio, a town located at the tip of a peninsula smack dab in the center of Lake Como, around lunchtime, and I’m nearly knocked down by the breathtaking views. The crystal-clear blue waters reflect the snowcapped Alpine mountains that surround it. It’s quintessential Italy with multicolored villas lining the narrow streets. We stop at a viewpoint and stare at the lake ahead.
“Damn,” is the only word that comes to mind.
Giac laughs, leaning back as he grips the guardrail standing between us and the water below. His arms flex. “Worth the long trip?”
I feel calm for the first time all day, the first time in. . . I don’t even know how long. Giac makes me feel so at ease, like he’s put my nerves on ice. “Definitely.”
We decide to grab a bite to eat at one of the many small restaurants that line the crowded streets of Bellagio before we meet up with Sutton, who will escort us across the lake to the Farentinos’ home. I lower my sunglasses onto my face as we find a quiet, inconspicuous table tucked into the corner of the outdoor deck. I order a Margherita pizza and, based on Giac’s recommendation, a Campari Spritz. It’s bitter and tart—but refreshing after the long drive. We sit in a comfortable silence as we eat. He’s not freaked out by long pauses in conversation, and I like that about him.
We take a ferry across the lake to the small village of Tremezzo, then follow a path down the coast. Both Sutton and Benito described the Lake Como house as a home, but it’s not a home, it’s a palace. Giant, grand, a massive all-white estate sitting right at the lake’s edge. While their La Musa house is fit for a nobleman, this is more suited for a king. Giac is in heaven.
“This looks to be in the style of Swiss architect Simone Cantoni,” Giac says, admiring the elaborate painting on the foyer’s domed ceiling.
Raffaello steps into the room to greet us, grinning smugly. “That’s because itisSimone Cantoni.” He gestures for us to follow him outside. Giac looks tome with his mouth agape and lets out a breathless squeal.
The backyard, which feels too basic a word for it, is even more grand: a giant terrace overlooking the water, what must be at least an acre of gardens, and a sparkling swimming pool. “Whoa,” is all I can say.
“It’s not bad.” Raffaello winks at me. “We’re having a dinner party tonight, and you’ll both come, of course. Drinks are at five. Natalia will show you to your room.”
“We do not need to bother Natalia.” Benito steps out onto the terrace. He’s wearing athletic shorts, which I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in, and a T-shirt. It’s weird to see him in this casual of a setting. If it weren’t for the scowl on his face, I’d say he looks comfortable, relaxed. “I will show them to their rooms.”
He leads us to the east wing of the giant property to a set of rooms across from one another. Giac yawns. “I am quite tired after the trip. I think I will take a nap if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” I wave to him as he closes the door to his room behind him. I nod my head toward my room, motioning for Benito to follow me. I shut the door once we’re inside. The room is all blue with white crown molding and a large king-sized bed in the center. He puts his hands in his pockets and waits for me to speak. “Sorry if me being here is weird. Sorry if coming here with Giac is weird. Sutton insisted and it all kind of spiraled out of control—”
Benito raises his hand and I stop talking. “Izzy, it’s fine. I’m glad you’re here.”
My chest warms. “You are?”
“Yes,” he says quickly, lifting his eyes to meet mine and flashing a quick smile. “I’m sure you and Giac will have a lovely weekend.” His eyes fall back to the floor.
I shift from one foot to another. “Giac and I are just friends. You know that, right?” It’s not my place to out Giac to Benito, but I shouldn’t need to.
He nods, but the expression on his face remains glum. “Natalia will bring fresh towels.” He walks toward the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Chapter Fourteen
I change out of my romper and into a maxi dress that I threw into my small overnight bag last night. It’s wrinkled from the long trip, but I do my best to smooth it out with my hands. I dot a little concealer under my eyes and over my sun-kissed nose and brush out my hair. If I had known just how fancy this house was, I would’ve come better prepared. I’m not new to galas and going toe to toe with the uber-wealthy, but I would feel better with a pair of pumps or a dress I didn’t pick off the clearance rack three summers ago.
When I make my way outside, I’m greeted by Lucia handing me an Aperol Spritz. “Izzy!” She kisses me on both cheeks. “Benito told me you were here, and I was so glad.” She holds my shoulders and raises her eyebrows. “And with Giac too. . .”
“We’re friends. Just friends,” I say. She raises one side of her mouth in response, not buying it. I spot Benito at the edge of the terrace, taking in the viewof the late-afternoon sun on the lake. He’s wearing a light, blue linen button-up and loose brown pants that are cuffed at the bottom—a more casual rendition of his standard uniform. I start to make my way toward him, but I’m intercepted by Sutton—looking perfect, of course, in a freshly pressed beige silk slip dress and fuchsia pumps that make her tower over me even more than usual.
“Izzy, glad you’re here,” she says, forcing me into a kind of rigid half hug. “There’s loads of business associates here tonight that would be happy to meet you.”
My throat suddenly thickens. “Meetme?As in, Izzy in Italy or—”
“The former Congresswoman Isabella Rhodes, of course,” she says, as if it’s as ordinary as any other job. “We’ve been trying to expand our business to the U.S., and we’d all love to pick your brain on policy.” I cannot think of anything worse than foraging into the deep back pocket of my brain where such information is stored, but I’m trapped. I follow her.
“I don’t know what Ben has told you about me,” she says as we walk toward a small crowd of men. “But I don’t bite.”
“He honestly hasn’t told me much, just that you’re broken up.” There’s an edge in my voice and I can’t tell if it’s bitterness that she’s talking to me about Benito or anxiety about whatever the next conversation has in store.
