“Oh, thank the gods,” I hear Cammie mumble through a clenched-teeth semblance of a smile as she relaxes against me a little.
We can work with this. Nothing strange going on, just as long as he doesn’t say anything to her about—
“Ah, bellisima,” the older man shouts, drawing attention from people across the whole terrazzo, including, I notice for the first time, my dad. He looks as pleased to see the older man as Dr. Alex was. Both parents’ gazes follow Dr. Constantini’s to see what’s so beautiful.
Which is when their smiles drop, and my heart goes along with them.
“Paolo, you made it,” Dr. Constantini says to the newest arrival of his former students. Paolo Bianchi moves cautiouslythrough the crowd, which parts like it’s been choreographed for maximum drama.
“Paolo?” Dr. Alex echoes her former professor, though she says the name more like a bewildered question.
“Alex,” Captain Bianchi greets her, and when they stand before each other, both lean in for the hug and double cheek kiss. They linger a little in the embrace, but in a way I read as old friends who haven’t seen each other in too long.
I thought Cammie was fooling herself to think that she’d see Dr. Alex with these men and judge whether they were her father. But sure enough, this perfectly pleasant—if confused on both ends—reunion solidifies what my mind was already inclined to believe. Paolo couldn’t possibly be Cammie’s dad.
“Gosh, it’s been ages,” Dr. Alex says, pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks.
“Twenty years,” Paolo agrees with a goofy grin, sticking his hands in the pockets of his corduroys, his posture easy and comfortable. He nods to indicate the balloons hanging over the not-yet-filled food table along with a banner proclaiming20 Anno di Villa di Bronzo. No mention of Dr. Alex, per Johnny Russo’s instructions.
“Congrats, by the way. I can’t believe it’s been so long, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at you.”
“Oh, stop it,” Dr. Alex says with a girlish giggle I’ve never heard from her. Cammie and I both look back and forth between the pair like we’re watching a Ping-Pong match. “But what on earth are you doing here? Not that it isn’t great to see you, just…I thought you’d left all this academia stuff behind.Did Villa Russo’s event folks reach out to everyone who was in the classics department at the time, or…?”
Cammie’s hand clamps around my wrist as my stomach lurches.
Here we go.
The Italian leather boat shoe is dropping. Paolo looks around quickly, his eyes first passing right over Cammie before they land back on her, and he waves a hand our way.
“It’s an interesting story, one I’m not sure I know in full,” he starts, “but the short answer is that your daughter invited me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Cammie
I make a new additionto my growing mental list of useful phrases to translate into Italian: “I’m so fucked.”
The lucky part of this whole ex-boyfriend surprise ambush is that Mom hasn’t yet had even a second to interrogate me. She’s too busy catching up with her ex-boyfriends. Plural, because it wasn’t wild enough for Paolo to show after ignoring my attempt to contact him like he was Jaspér the Ghost, Casper’s rude Italian cousin. Tony Costa-Campbell decided to roll up, too, having escaped from his other obligation with enough time to stop at home and bring his wife, Luna, along.
He at least had the courtesy to arrive at the perfect time, distracting my mother right when she’d turned to ask me how or why or whatever other questions she had about my role in bringing Paolo here tonight.
“Tony?”she’d shrieked, somehow even more stunned than she was with Paolo.
I guess one long-ago ex at your party is a wacky coincidence. Two is a tinfoil-hat-worthy conspiracy.
“Buona sera, darlin’,” Tony said in his confounding Italian-Australian-fake-Matthew-McConaughey fashion. “Been a minute, hey? Allow me to introduce my missus.”
Before Not My Dad #2 could doubly blow my cover, I’d grabbed West’s hand and retreated to the other side of the terrazzo. We’re behind one of the potted lemon trees brought in to create a “natural-yet-decorative border,” as I heard one of the event planners say earlier in the week, because I guess the many already planted in the ground all around the villa weren’t natural or decorative enough. But I’m grateful for the sort-of-hiding-spot it creates without us having to leave entirely for some privacy.
“I know ‘RSVP’ is a French term, but surely the concept exists in this country,” I whisper sharply to West, once I’m confident enough no one can see our faces and I can drop myeverything is bellisimasmile.
“At least the food is buffet-style?” he offers by way of a weak upside.
“I don’t care if there’s enough food for these party crashers!”
“You mean the guests you specifically invited.”
“Weston, I need your commiseration right now, not the old ‘well well well, if it isn’t the consequences of your own actions’ schtick.”
