“This all looks amazing,” I start. “Thank you so much. Um. . . but I’m a vegetarian.” The wordvegetarianseems as unfamiliar to Anita as whatever Italian she’d spoken had been to me.
She puts all the trays back into the refrigerator and produces another. “Penne with tomato sauce.”
“Perfetto,” I reply.
“Benito, serve our guest,” Anita demands.
“Oh, it’s ok, I can get it—” I go for the tray, but Anita pulls it away from me, glaring at Benito. He walks toward a cupboard and takes out a bowl. He opens a drawer for a spoon and dumps a few scoopfuls of pasta into the bowl.
Anita watches approvingly. “My son. He spends a decade in London and now has all the manners of a plague-ridden rat.”
“Mamma,” Benito replies, “London is not like La Musa, it has progressed since the 1500s.”
Anita rolls her eyes. “See how he speaks to me? The boy I raised knew how to respect his elders.” Benito ignores her and heats the bowl in the microwave. He takes a slab of Parmesan and starts grating it methodically. Anita continues, “I hope you treat Sutton with more respect than you do me.”
My interest piques. “Sutton?”
Benito blushes. Anita answers, “His girlfriend. She lives in London. Can you imagine? Staying in London while your lover returns to the beautiful place of his birth?”
“Girlfriend, huh?” I say, teasingly, realizing too late that I probably shouldn’t mock the love life of a person who knows where I sleep. He shoots me a glare.
Anita laughs jovially. “Believe it or not, he finds the time for a lover between being angry and feeling sad.”
“Mamma!” Benito shouts, “Do not say ‘lover.’”
Anita shares a look with me like we’re already in cahoots. I like her, I decide. The jury’s still out on the son. The microwave beeps and Benito takes the piping-hot pasta out and slathers it in cheese. It smells so amazing, I have to hold back tears.
“Please, sit,” Anita says, gesturing toward a stool at the edge of the kitchen island. Benito places the bowl and a fork in front of me as I oblige, and I immediately dig in. I don’t know if it’s the near-death hunger talking, but it’s the best bowl of pasta I’ve ever had.
“Anita,” I say, between bites, “this is amazing.”
She grins. “Welcome to La Musa, Isabella. May every moment here be just as delicious.”
Chapter Two
I settle into my room, immediately testing the functionality of my over-10-year-old outlet converters to charge my phone and laptop. Though I’m questioning now why I even brought the latter. It gives me anxiety to be too far away from it, a remnant of my dead career. Maybe my first act of freedom can be to chuck it over the edge of the cliff and let it crash into the hillside below. A chill runs down my spine and I sort of reassuringly tap its outer shell. I would never.
The room is exactly like the photos Anita posted online but bigger in person. It’s mostly absent of furniture save a twin-sized bed and small armoire, and the yellow wallpaper, which matches the exterior of the house, is peeling in the corners. There are two framed paintings above the bed; one is of La Musa, the other of the house itself. I don’t get the sense this room was ever a permanent residence for anyone, but rather a sparsely used guest room. It’s located on thesecond floor at the end of a long hall lined with heavy oak doors, all closed tightly.
I take my toiletry bag out of my suitcase and cross the hall to the bathroom to set up. The door is shut, and when I swing it open, Benito is standing on the other side washing his hands in one of the double sinks. I yelp.
“Jesus,” I say. “You scared me.”
“Do you normally walk into a washroom without knocking?” he asks, his expression as stoic as ever, like he isn’t surprised I could be so rude.
“I didn’t know anyone else was up here,” I say. “Anita said the master was on the third floor. I assumed—”
“Old house. No en-suite, marble-countered, spa-tub, rain-shower bathroom for every bedroom like I’m sure you’re used to,” he says, turning off the faucet and drying his hands.
“Actually, my childhood home only had one and a half bathrooms,” I say. It wasn’t until my DC apartment that I even had my own bathroom for the first time. “They were both beach themed.”
“Why are Americans so obsessed with beach-themed toilets?” Benito asks, though more out loud as a hypothetical and not meant for me to answer.
I glance around the hallway. The sun is starting to set and it’s shining brightly through the west-facing window. “So, we’re sharing?” I ask. “That was not on the Airbnb listing.”
“If you find the accommodations unsuitable, you can leave,” Benito says all too quickly. “How did you even get such a long-term visa with no job?”
“I know a guy,” I say, because Ralph at the State Department kind of has a thing for me. Benito rolls his eyes. “The accommodations are fine. I’ve never had a sibling, so I’ll get to see what it’s like.”
