Duke for the Summer

19.

Nate was in Venice, ostensibly to paint, but really, to sulk, and drink a lot of prosecco, and do endless sets of push-ups on the ornate tile floor of his hotel room. It was a gorgeous, decaying hotel room in a gorgeous, decaying city, the walls of the building corroded by past floods, the ironwork on the windows scabby with rust, and everything was beautiful and everything hurt. Thea had given up on blowing up his phone a few days ago. He was alone, in this crumbling jewel of a place, and he had more money than he knew what to do with and endless opportunities for the future, and all he wanted was to be back in the little caretaker’s hut on the castle grounds, cuddled up against Jacopo’s side as they made fun of ghost hunting shows.

He had told Thea he wouldn’t get his heart broken, but in the end it had been his own fault. Nate wasn’t the most emotionally intelligent guy out there, but even he knew that freezing up and rejecting someone when they finally told you their deepest, darkest secret was–not great. Especially when they’d already been rejected by their parents. And Jacopo obviously didn’t want to hear his apology, because he hadn’t picked up his phone. He was probably too busy, Nate thought darkly, imagining him laughing somewhere in a bar, his smile lighting up the life of some other man. Someone he could fully be honest with, someone without any ties to Carmosino. Nate should never have hoped for a relationship with Jacopo in the first place. There was too much baggage there, too much history, and he’d plopped himself down in the middle of it like a dumbass and just expected things to work out.

Even now, he was far too entangled with Jacopo’s family, and Nate didn’t know what to do about it. Gracie had texted him this morning, a picture of Mirabella in a hospital bed, Antonio beaming at her side, their new son cradled in her arms. And so Nate had spent the last few hours furiously researching florists in Palermo, because he was too scared to actually go visit and he felt guilty and the least he could do was spend some of his ridiculously large inheritance on the best flower arrangement Mirabella had ever seen.

He would have to go back at some point. All of his stuff was still in the castle. And he had to do something with the property. Get it renovated enough for tourists to visit, or sell the thing altogether. He couldn’t live there, not when every inch of it was filled with memories.

It killed him to think of strangers tromping through the library, taking selfies on the ramparts, scaring away the cats.

Nate wandered out onto his balcony, phone in one hand, a dull sense of listlessness suffusing his bones. It was late afternoon, shards of sunlight glittering on the surface of the Grand Canal. The sky was a hazy fantasy of lavender and peach, a few stars beginning to come out. The air was humid and smelled of salt and algae and centuries of dampness, and Nate breathed deeply, feeling tears well in his eyes. He hadn’t picked up a paintbrush since he’d come here, almost felt like he didn’t deserve to. He didn’t know what to do. He’d probably sit out here until night fell and the mosquitoes became unbearable.

His phone started to ring, startling him. Nate looked at the screen, thumb poised to decline the call, and–

His mind bleached white for a second. Nate’s whole body started to tremble, and for a moment his sinuses filled with the smell of Jacopo’s hair, so vivid that he could almost feel its roughness against his cheek. Oh, God, he was calling. He was calling and Nate’s fingers were shaking so hard that he almost hung up on him accidentally before managing to hit the right button and hold the phone wordlessly to his ear.

“Nate?” Jacopo’s voice was tinny and far away, and relief bloomed in Nate’s chest at the sound of it; his entire soul seemed to take a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His cheeks were wet, and he tasted salt as he replied.

“Hi.”

“Nate,” Jacopo sighed.

“I’m so sorry.” He was crying openly now, the canal blurring before his eyes, and so much water was coming out of his face that he was afraid he’d drown his phone before he got out what he wanted to say. “I fucked up, Jacopo. I didn’t want you to leave. I know it’s weird that you have a daughter but–but we’ll make it work. I want to be with you–I–I think I even love you, and so if you’re willing to put up with me, then–”

“Nate.”

“–like, I know I have my shit, too, right? I have body issues and daddy issues and–and I should probably see a therapist because inheriting a castle is, like, a major life event and–”

“Nate,” Jacopo said firmly. “I love you, too.”

“Oh.” Nate stopped talking, his hand in a vice grip around the phone, and the sun shining on the water was nowhere near as incandescent as he felt at this moment, his blood full of bubbles and effervescence and his heart pounding. He felt himself stumble against the railing of the balcony. His face hurt. He was smiling, and still crying, too, and some kind of weird sob-laugh worked itself up out of his throat.

He sat down, his legs trembling too much to stand.

“I’m coming back to Carmosino,” he heard Jacopo say. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning. I couldn’t–I needed to talk to you. I couldn’t just show up.” Jacopo’s voice was thick with emotion. “Nate, I met my daughter. Her name is Noemi. She lives in Dublin, and she’s tall and smart and funny, and she loves Korean boy bands and Oscar Wilde.”

Nate wiped his eyes, heart caught in his throat. “She sounds awesome.”

“I would love for you to meet her.”

“I would love that, too.” He swallowed, trying to gather his thoughts. “I want to see you. I’m in Venice, but I can hop on a plane. I’ll probably get there right around the same time as you.”

“You’re in Venice?” Jacopo let out a surprised little laugh.

“Yeah. I’m–I’m on a balcony in this stupidly swanky hotel, and it’s the golden hour, and the whole city is, like, glowing, and magical, and I’m crying a lot and I really wish you were here.”

“I’m in the airport in Munich,” Jacopo said. “It’s the first time I’ve been to Germany. It’s pouring down rain outside, and I’m crying a lot too, and I think the people around me are worried I’m having some kind of mental breakdown. But I’m actually very, very happy, and in love.”

“I love you,” Nate said again, because he could. “I’ll start looking for flights right now.”

“Not yet.” Jacopo’s voice was thoughtful, but certain. More certain than Nate had ever heard him. “I think–I think it’s best that you’re not there. I don’t know how any of this is going to go. I need to tell my family everything, and I think I need to do it alone. As much as I want to see you, and as much as it means to me, Nate, that you’re willing to be there.”

“You’re sure?” Nate bit his lip. “It could be a shitshow.”

Jacopo sighed. “It probably will be. But I need to do it.”

He started crying again, and there were a thousand things he wanted to say, but all he replied was, “Ok. Ok, I understand. I’ll come there after you tell them. Or, if it all goes to shit, I’ll be waiting for you in Venice. Did I mention that I have a balcony? Oh, and a king-size bed.”

Jacopo let out something between a laugh and a sniffle. “Perfect. Nate, I have to go. I have no idea where I am in this airport and I need to find my gate.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s probably important.”

“I don’t want to. I would stay on the phone with you for hours.”

“I’ll see you soon. And,” Nate heard his voice crack as he said, “I’m so fucking proud of you, babe.”

“I love you,” Jacopo said.

“I love you too. How do you say it in Italian?”

“Ti amo, Nate.”

“Ti amo, Jacopo. Ti amo, uh, molto.”

Jacopo chuckled. “Close enough. I–I really do have to go. I’ll see you in a few days. I wish it was sooner. But I can’t wait. Whatever happens–”

“I’ll be there,” Nate promised. They hung up, and he sat there holding his phone to his chest as sunset spilled across the city, lighting up the cathedral spires and bridges and palazzos, turning the world into a fairy-tale treasure of rose gold.

*

It turned out that it was hard to quit smoking in the same week that you met your estranged daughter, came out to your family, and made it official with your boyfriend, so despite his best efforts, Jacopo found himself buying a pack of cigarettes and a lighter at the first tabaccheria he found in Palermo. He sat and smoked for some time as he waited for the ferry, his fingers tingling. He knew he should be nervous, but he’d been through so many emotions in the last twenty-four hours that there was a fog over it all, and all he could feel was a dim sense of wonderment.

It was a beautiful day, the blue sky scalloped with clouds, the sun making the pavement hot. It was strange, to feel the heat after his time in Dublin, and even stranger to realize how little time had passed since he’d left, and that it was still the tail end of summer here. Jacopo could hardly believe that he was the same person who’d been here a week ago, eyes parched from crying and pacing all night, hands shaking as he booked the first available flight to London.

He guessed he wasn’t that person, in a way. He had a daughter now, who he had met—who he was going to learn Irish with, and write to, and hopefully bring to the island. He had Nate. Whatever happened, he had Nate, waiting for him at the end of whatever trial by fire this might be. And in some way, he even had himself. He had back the Jacopo who had dreamed and had been passionate and had taken risks.

That part was a little harder to believe, but he tried to convince himself of it as he watched the waves part before the bow of the ferry, Carmosino rising out of the sea in the distance.

There wasn’t time to say anything once he got to the house where Mirabella lived with Antonio and his parents. He had a second to register the blue ribbon on the door, and then he was besieged by the women in his family, hugging him, kissing his cheeks, holding him at arm’s length to scold him. Good Lord, his family was so loud, had always been so loud that he could barely think, and he was shocked that they didn’t wake up the baby. Already, he felt like he wanted to shrivel up and disappear. Mamma was there, and his sisters, and Nonna and Zia Grazia, and Jacopo realized with a sinking sensation in his stomach that he hadn’t even considered telling Nonna. He was terrified of her. At least Papà wasn’t there.

“Jacopo, where were you?” his mother asked. “You just disappeared! We missed you at the hospital.”

“Dublin,” he said, heart pounding. All the eerie calm he’d felt on the ferry had evaporated, and now his palms were starting to sweat.

“Dublin? What in God’s name is in Dublin?”

“Mamma, I–”

But she had turned away, throwing her hands up, and was talking to Antonio’s mother. “Dublin, I ask you. My crazy son jets off to Ireland for his birthday and doesn’t tell anybody, misses the birth of his nephew…”

Jacopo pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to crawl inside himself and hide. He wanted a cigarette, and he’d already smoked most of the pack.

“But seriously, what’s in Dublin?” Gracie asked, touching his arm. Her cheeks were pink, and she was holding a glass of wine, though it was mid-morning.

“I just—I had to do something there. See an old friend.”

“Huh.” Gracie gave him an assessing look. “Well, you picked a good time to leave, missing all the excitement. Not that you’d need to worry, anyway, you’re not the one getting all the questions about–” She shot a look at Nonna, who had glanced over at them. “Never mind. Do you want to see the baby? He’s upstairs, resting, with Mirabella.”

“Babies are such weird little creatures,” she continued under her voice, as she led him up the stairs. Gracie had definitely had a few, and Jacopo wondered if the family was getting to her too. She’d always seemed so above it all. “I mean, they really don’t do much at this point. And the whole process, and the nursing–ugh. I’m not even sure I want one.” She looked at Jacopo. “Do you ever think you’ll have any?”

He felt his face turn red, and he tried to keep his voice level as he said, “I think–there are good things about having children.”

“Children, sure. But babies?” Gracie made a face. “Shh, though. Don’t say anything to Mirabella. She’s still on a lot of pain medication and I don’t want to upset her.”

“Hi, Jacopo.” Mirabella looked up when they came into the room, her eyes bleary. “He wasn’t born on your birthday, after all.” She smiled, a wobbly, exhausted smile. Antonio was in a chair at her bedside, apparently napping, and Alessia was there too, knitting in the corner. She gave him a little nod.

It was all Jacopo could do to nod back. His chest felt like someone was squeezing it, and his eyes were drawn to the bundle in Mirabella’s arms, the dark little head with its tuft of fine hair, the tiny hand splayed on her chest. A cascade of emotions went through him: pride, and fear, and a sense of intrusiveness, and memories flashed through his head, snapshots of Mirabella as a child. He remembered holding her hands when she was learning to walk, helping her with her ABC’s. The open, guileless adoration in her face when she’d looked up at him as a toddler. Jacopo swallowed, tears coming to his eyes.

“Oh, no.” Gracie elbowed him. “Don’t you cry, too.”

He cleared his throat. “How–” what did you say to someone who had just had a baby? What did you say to your littlest sister, who you’d been keeping secrets from? He settled on, “How do you feel?”

Mirabella giggled sheepishly. Her pupils were enormous, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was in a messy updo, strands escaping at random angles. She looked incredibly young. “I’m so tired. And no one has let me shower yet and I’m wearing a diaper and I think I might be a little bit–high? But I’m so glad you’re here. I was worried you wouldn’t come back.”

“Of course I came back. I’m so sorry I missed it.”

“Don’t be. They only let Mamma and Antonio in the room anyway, and I was screaming the whole time. And this is the first time he’s really resting. Do you want to see him?”

Jacopo moved closer, bending down to look at the baby. Its little brow was furrowed in sleep, giving it a stubborn expression, and its skin was pink and new, nearly transparent. He watched as it blew a spit bubble in its sleep, oblivious to the world and so, so fragile. Little guy, Jacopo thought, brushing a hand over the tuft of hair on his new nephew’s forehead. Do you know that you have a cousin in Dublin?

“What’s his name?”

“We’re still deciding. I think he looks like an Elio, but Antonio’s mom is really pushing for Lorenzo, after her father.”

Jacopo chewed his lip. “I think I like Elio, too.”

This was all wrong, trying to tell them now. His ability to speak dried up when he was around all three sisters, even on the best of days. And if he said something, he’d ruin it, take away from Mirabella’s happiness and cast a shadow over the whole thing. Jacopo didn’t know what to do. He stared down at the baby, eyes welling up despite Gracie’s admonitions. He was fighting the urge to cry, but he also realized he was fighting the urge to sneeze, the smell of pollen clogging up his sinuses. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but there was a massive floral arrangement spilling off the bedside table and onto the floor.

“Pretty flowers,” he said.

“Oh, thanks.” Mirabella looked confused. “Nate didn’t tell you he sent them?”

“Nate? I–no. How did you know I talked to Nate?”

“Talked to him? Weren’t you with him, in Venice?” Mirabella asked.

“Jacopo was in Dublin for some mysterious thing,” Gracie said from over his shoulder.

“What? That’s not right.” Mirabella studied Jacopo’s face, her eyes murky. “You must have gone to Venice with him. Because–because you two are in love, right?”

Cold water flooded Jacopo’s stomach. He stood up, too rapidly, and bumped into the vase, and there was an absurd moment where he wrestled with it, trying to keep it from tipping over, before finally getting it to stand upright again. Yellow pollen had sprayed all over his shirtfront, and his ears were ringing as he said, with a stupefied sense of surreality, “What?”

Gracie laughed. “Those really must be good drugs, Mirabella. There’s no way–”

“I saw you holding him in the kitchen,” Mirabella said stubbornly. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I could tell it was romantic, and Gracie told me that Nate is gay, and I kind of always thought you didn’t like girls, so–”

Gracie crossed her arms. “You can’t be serious.” But there was something speculative in her expression as she focused her gaze on Jacopo. Alessia was staring at him too, her knitting abandoned in her lap. “Right? Jacopo?”

He swallowed. His hands were shaking, his insides a buzzing mess, as if he’d eaten a beehive. He sat back down. “It’s true,” Jacopo said.

“What in the fucking balls,” Gracie said flatly.

“Oh,” said Alessia. “So many things make sense now.”

Mirabella started to cry.

Several things happened at once then. The baby squawked, which then turned into a full-blown shriek, which in turn woke up a panicked Antonio, who rocketed up out of the chair, saying, “What is it, what’s wrong, is it the baby?” He stood there half-awake, hair plastered to one side of his face, hands raised to face any emergency. Antonio looked from his wife, who was still crying, to the baby, who was red-faced, struggling and fussing. “Mirabella? What’s going on?”

“I’m not upset, I’m not–here, Antonio, take him please.” Mirabella took a deep breath, wiping her nose. “I’m not upset. I’m just sad you didn’t tell us sooner, and I’m sorry because I think your life has been harder than we thought, and it hurts to think of you feeling like you couldn’t tell me–and–and–God, it’s so many hormones, you know, and the pain pills–”

Jacopo grabbed her hand wordlessly.

“What is happening?” Antonio asked, bouncing the baby. “Jacopo? When did you get here?”

“I was right!” Mirabella told him, wiping her eyes on the bed sheet. “Jacopo’s in love with Nate. I told you.”

“Oh.” Antonio looked bewildered. “But that’s–good, right? We like Nate.”

“Oh my God, am I the only one who had no idea?” Gracie exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “And I’m the one who spent the most time with them. I can’t believe this! Jacopo–Jacopo, what’s wrong with you, what are you–”

But Jacopo was laughing, laughing uncontrollably, gulping for air as if he had just been pulled from underwater, and he was shaking, too, as all the fear and tension and dread of the last seventeen-odd years poured out of him in waves. He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, felt Gracie’s hair brush his face, and her body shake as she laughed too. “Porco cane, Jacopo, you big stupid. You’re crazy! Why didn’t you say anything? I mean, I understand why, but–you know your sisters love you, right? And we’re happy for you. And Nate! I can’t believe you ended up with Nate somehow. How on earth did you manage that? Oh my God. We have to tell Mamma. And–what do they say in English?” She put on an exaggerated American accent, saying, “Papà’s totally going to freak out.”

A hand squeezed his shoulder, and he looked up to see Alessia standing beside him. She smiled gently.

“Even you?” Jacopo asked. “You–you go to church every Sunday, you–”

She shrugged. “You’re my brother. And Marcello has a cousin in Milan who’s nonbinary. Which you would know, if we ever talked. We might be from a small town, but we don’t have to be small-minded. Besides,” she added, with an ironic expression, “now I know why you kept stealing my issues of Cioè when we were kids.”

“Oh my God. I didn’t think you noticed.” The special edition one with Leonardo DiCaprio on the cover was probably still living under his mattress. Jacopo groaned, and wiped a hand over his face. It came away wet, and there were still traces of pollen on his palm. His face started to itch, and he laughed again.

“So then why were you in Dublin?” Gracie asked, still babbling. “Is Nate there? I thought he said he was in Venice. Did you have a fight? Oh, no, did you break up? Please tell me you didn’t break up, Jacopo, after all this–”

“We didn’t break up,” Jacopo said. He let out a long sigh. His limbs were weak, almost numb, as if he had just swum to Carmosino from Sicily instead of taking the ferry, and exhaustion was starting to fold over him. “I, um. Gracie, remember how you asked if I ever wanted to have kids?”

The door swung open, and Mamma walked in without so much as a knock, saying, “Now, how’s my grandson, is he awake yet?” She paused, looking at all of them, Jacopo sitting down with tears and pollen on his face, Gracie with her arms around him, Alessia standing at his side, Mirabella still red-cheeked and weepy, and Antonio bouncing the baby, who had quieted down and was making pleased little grunts against his father’s shoulder. She blinked, twice, her hand on the doorknob. “What’s been going on in here?” she asked.