Chapter 2 #2
“Un placer,” she replied in Spanish, squeezing his hand back with a grin.
“Nico is the pro at Moneglia Tennis Club,” Andrea added. “Do either of you play?”
“I play,” said Vilmari, lifting her chin and pulling her shoulders back. “A little.” Her lips curved at Nico.
“Perhaps you can find a free hour then. He’s really very good. We’re finished here, though, yes? I will see you tomorrow morning around nine?” He turned to Lora.
“That works for me,” said Lora, standing. “One more thing. We are staying at a bed-and-breakfast in town. It’s called Casa Coo-coo Zolo? Can you tell us where it is?”
“Casa Cocuzzolo. Yes, let’s walk out together and I’ll show you.” Andrea stood by the door to the office and gestured for them to go through.
“Spero che gli piace arrampicare come te,” Nico muttered behind Andrea. He turned and glared back, urging him to keep quiet about the less-than-ideal location of the hotel.
“What does it mean, ‘cocuzzolo’?” asked Vilmari.
“It means that you must enjoy climbing to—” Nico started his unwelcome translation.
“It’s a beautiful place,” Andrea cut him off.
“I will send a text to Beatrice, the owner, to tell her you’re coming.
You’ll love it there. The views are spectacular.
” Andrea pulled his phone out of his back pocket and fired off a text while the others made their way toward the door.
In his efforts to revitalize the town and bring back tourists, he’d been adamant about encouraging businesses to focus on customer service.
Most owners were pretty good about updating their hours of operation on Google, stocking oat milk, and writing up some signage in English and German.
All but Beatrice. Knowing that she was the only lodging in town, she couldn’t be bothered to improve customer service beyond exactly what she had been doing for the last forty years.
If it had worked up until then, why should she change anything?
Beatrice had always believed deeply in the power of the ninety-degree-Celsius wash cycle when it came to linens and kept dustcloths in the pocket of every apron she owned; therefore her reviews for cleanliness alone made it hard to argue with her.
However, she had been using the same promo photos of the inn for years as well, none of which indicated that it was not situated in town but perched above it like a treehouse.
It was all there in the name—cocuzzolo literally meant “the peak of a mountain”—but if guests didn’t speak Italian or look the word up, they’d be unknowingly signing on for a walk up 146 steps to get there.
Andrea:
Bea. Your guests are here
You need to plug in the ice maker
They are American
Of course she didn’t see the message. Knowing Beatrice, she’d probably reply after they’d checked out and flown back to New York, but it was worth a shot anyway.
“It sounds great,” Lora said, taking the handle of her suitcase. “Thanks again.”
“It’s my pleasure,” said Andrea. He gestured toward a stairway set between two buildings to their left. There was a small sign tacked up with the name of the B and B and a seagull painted next to it. “Just there. You can follow that right up.” A ding came from his phone.
Bea:
I don’t like the ice maker
It makes a noise when the ice comes out
It scares Attila
Attila, her very fat orange cat who got that way by eating all of the field mice in a two-mile radius, probably wouldn’t be scared by anything short of a rattlesnake with a shotgun in its maw.
Andrea:
Why did we buy you the ice maker if you don’t use it?
Please Bea
Bea:
Vediamo
Vediamo. It was the blowoff of all blowoffs, but with the two women watching him, there was no way he was going to get into a text war with his only innkeeper.
“She’s looking forward to having you.” He smiled, panicking.
Lora was tall but willowy—like she wouldn’t have a problem nailing twenty pirouettes in a row, but might struggle pulling her suitcase up all the steps.
Vilmari was clearly trying not to limp in her tall sandals, but it was easy to see where the strap was biting into her ankle.
“Just up there, huh?” Vilmari said, edging toward the stairway. She leaned in, no doubt trying to see where it ended.
“We got this,” Lora said, placing her hand on her friend’s back. “Come on. At the top of that, I bet there’s a cold, cold Hugo Spritz.”
The only thing waiting for them would be lukewarm tap water.
Beatrice didn’t serve alcohol because she wouldn’t pay for the permit.
Andrea did know that there would be plenty of Spritz at the yacht club later, but did he want to extend the invitation?
Lora was pretty convinced that she knew what she was doing with the citizenship process, even though there was no way what she was trying to do was going to happen as quickly or easily as she’d planned.
He was going to have to be the bearer of bad news at some point.
Maybe he could smooth it over by at least being hospitable.
“You know, they serve the absolute best Spritz in the world at the yacht club. If you don’t have plans for tonight, maybe you’d like to join us. All of us, I mean. It’s a welcome summer party that we do every year, and it’s really nice. Fresh seafood, great drinks. The whole town will be there.”
“Do we have plans?” Vilmari asked Lora.
“I didn’t really plan anything besides meeting the mayor,” Lora said, waving her hand toward Andrea. “So we’re free.”
“Then we’ll be there,” Vilmari said, smiling in the direction of Nico’s shoulders. “At the yacht club. Sounds amazing!”
“Probably after a nap, though,” Lora said, looking down at her suitcase and then back up at the stairway. Andrea made a plan to research how much it would cost to install a funicular. He wondered how that would play on Tripadvisor.
“You know, I have to speak to Beatrice, now that I think of it. Why don’t we take the bags up for you?” Andrea hovered his hand over Lora’s suitcase handle. “Is that OK with you?”
“That’s really unnecessary,” said Lora, taking the handle and pulling the bag toward her. “Thank you so much, though.” She pressed her lips together in a polite smile.
“It’s quite a climb, and honestly, it’s no trouble. I’m going up there anyway.”
“It’s very kind of you, but we’ve got it,” she repeated.
“I know you’ve got it, but maybe this time, we can get it,” Andrea said, realizing that he was riding a fine line between hospitality and outright chauvinism.
Nico, likely both tiring of the discussion and unbothered by any unintentional machismo, flipped his megawatt smile onto Vilmari and pulled her suitcase to him.
Turning the bag on its side, he grabbed the handle, hoisted it up to his shoulder like he was doing a wife-carry, and started up the stairway.
“That looks fine to me,” Vilmari said, watching his muscular legs pump up the steps. “I mean—that’s fine with me.” She whacked Lora on the arm, not taking her eyes off Nico.
Lora spun her suitcase toward Andrea and took a step back. “It would appear that I’ve been overruled.”
“Perhaps just this once.” He smiled. “You two go ahead.” He gestured toward the stairs. “I’ll be right behind you.”