Chapter 21
As soon as Lora got home, she whipped open her computer to call Vilmari.
It was noon on a Friday and Lora thought she might not be home, but she answered right away with a concerned face.
Lora told her everything about the documents and her omission of her middle name.
Vilmari laughed for almost a minute straight and asked if maybe they’d like her to hand over a cheek swab so that they could match her DNA until Lora told her that she wasn’t joking.
“But the definition of an initial is, and I quote, ‘the first letter of a person’s name,’” Vilmari said, looking at the dictionary app on her phone. “That means there’s a name. Who would name someone a letter?”
“Harry S. Truman’s parents.”
“The S doesn’t stand for anything? Stanley? Stuart? Sebastián?”
“Just S,” said Lora, turning away from her laptop to fill a glass with water.
“OK, so they may have had a point. But how were you supposed to know? And now what? Do you have to start all over again?” Vilmari asked, pulling her long glossy hair out from the neck of her bathrobe.
She often worked from home but was usually a stickler about putting on real clothing to do it. Maybe she just got out of the shower?
“No, Andrea basically stuck his neck out for me and had a very, let’s say emphatic conversation with the prefetto of Genova, who hates him and will probably ruin his career, by the way, so that he will talk to the immigration officer who is managing the case.”
“That’s great! What a hero that guy is, seriously.”
“He is. And I’m awful,” she said, her face crumpling.
“Wait, what? Why are you saying that…” Vilmari trailed off, watching her face. Lora knew that even from four thousand miles away and on video coming through satellite internet, Vilmari would read her as clear as if she’d written her thoughts out on a whiteboard. “Oh, shit. You slept with him.”
Lora leaned on her elbows and sat her chin in her hands. She nodded.
“And I like him,” Lora admitted.
“That’s good! Oh, wait, that’s not good.” Vilmari frowned.
“Nope.”
“Because you’re leaving there in a matter of weeks.”
“Yup. And I’m guilty—”
“Because you know he likes you too! And yet he has to do this thing that helps you leave. Oh man, this is a Bronte-level revolú.”
“Thanks for reminding me that this is a mess, but I am very much aware that it’s a mess. I thought we said this would be just a vacation thing! Something with no strings that would be over quick!”
“I’m sorry to tell you that vacation hookups don’t always end when the vacation does. Everyone knows this. It’s like you’ve never seen The Holiday!”
“Well, I didn’t know,” said Lora. “And I didn’t expect this. I was supposed to get here, get it done, and get out.”
“You got it done all right,” Vilmari said with a grin.
“Mar. Not helping.”
“OK, OK, sorry. Look, is there a world in which you could find a way to try to make a relationship work with him?”
“I can’t do long distance. You know this. Especially not while doing a postdoc. With a guy who runs a whole town. Plus, he has job offers in New York and London. Maybe he doesn’t even know where he’s going to be.”
“Long distance isn’t impossible,” said Vilmari. “It takes some planning, sure, but it doesn’t have to be completely out of the question.”
“Hello? Who are you? What have you done with Vilmari Colón, my best friend who broke up with her husband because he fell in love on an island sixteen hundred miles away?”
“You know, in the end I didn’t break up with Quique because of that. I broke up with him because we got married when we were children and had no idea what we wanted. I didn’t know enough about myself to pick out a lipstick shade, never mind who I was going to spend the rest of my life with.”
“You loved him in the best way you could have,” said Lora, remembering the times they’d hung out together.
They’d watch old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy or Mad Men and play Briscas for hours.
Quique was fun and funny, always ready to shove the furniture aside for a night of dancing and Don Q rum.
But it was clear that he was more and more into partying while Vilmari was becoming more and more dedicated to her work.
After a while, all they did was bicker like it was a professional sport.
“Of course I did, but he wasn’t the right guy. For the right guy, I might do something stupid like try long distance again—is all I’m saying.”
“Tesoro—”
Lora’s eyes popped as a strangely familiar voice sang out a term of endearment in Italian.
“Is that—Nico?! I knew something was going on with that bathrobe!”
Vilmari grinned and reached off camera, pulling Nico into the frame by the hand.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” she said.
“That’s not true,” Nico said into the camera. “Ciao, Loretta. The truth is that she didn’t believe me when I said I am coming.”
“Not every man follows through,” said Vilmari, nodding at Lora. “And I would have rather told you about this jerk who never showed up than whined about how I hoped he was coming.”
“But I’m here. And I am sorry to listen. The apartment is small,” he said, turning to the screen. “Andrea has not been with anyone since he came back to Italy. I should not say this, but I can see how he feels about you. He’s not the kind of person to—how do you say? Wing off?”
“Wing it,” offered Vilmari.
“Yes, wing it. He plans, he thinks, then he does things.”
“I know,” said Lora. “I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I wouldn’t have made it this far without him.”
“Stop. And think about what you just said.” Vilmari pointed at her. “I’ve known you for over a decade and I’ve never heard you say that about anyone.”
“Because I never have. But that’s as far as it can go. September 10 is five minutes away, and the rest of my life is happening in the country next to this one. I am not one of those women who is trying to have it all, Mar. I know I can’t. I will not let my dream go.”
“And so you shouldn’t. Don’t. With any luck you won’t fall in love in the remaining days and you can celebrate by eating your body weight in raclette in Zurich in a matter of weeks. No regrets!”
“Yeah,” she said, refolding one of Andrea’s tea towels on the counter. “With any luck.”
Andrea had been sure that they’d worked out enough of the problems in the weeks leading up to the sagra so that the actual weekend would be smooth sailing.
He’d been wrong. Two of the local vineyards had underestimated the appeal of orange wine with the TikTok set and ran out entirely before the first day was over.
A late train delayed the lunchtime arrivals, which meant that when people finally got there, they rushed the food booths, causing the lines to snake across each other, and half of the people wanting frisceu ended up with farinata.
A group of kids playing in the middle of the piazza kicked a soccer ball into Carola’s fruit and vegetable display, turning her Claude Monet into a Jackson Pollock.
Due to an overly exuberant dose of spirit in the babà al rum, one of the Missionary Sisters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus misplaced the secure bank bag full of money from their baked goods table.
And the greenhouse selling pots of fresh plants had accidentally included a selection of experimental “herbs” that looked enough like oregano to have been sold with a recipe for a special salad that would, no doubt, make people feel quite special thirty to sixty minutes after ingesting.
“But the focaccia broke sales records, the band kept everyone going until after midnight, and no one required an ambulance,” said Giada, giving Andrea a pep talk at the end of the first night.
He’d wandered into the café after helping the ex–chief of police drain the oil from the deep fryers used for the frittelle.
The first thing Giada had said to him was that he smelled like a giant doughnut.
“I suppose those are positives,” Andrea said, aiming to sit himself on one of the stools in front of the bar.
In gratitude for his service, Comandante Beppo had poured them two glasses of the intensely strong Amaro Camatti, which Andrea could certainly not refuse, despite it lighting up his esophagus like a brushfire.
He’d drunk it all and still managed to dispose of the hot cooking oil without scalding the skin off his arms. It was only now that he noticed his vision going a little bit furry at the edges.
“It’s going to be fine. Tomorrow will be better, you’ll see. Red or white?” Giada held two bottles poised over a wineglass she’d set out on the bar in front of him.
“Either.” He shrugged. He could have refused, but why bother?
She tipped a generous dose of red wine into the glass.
Maybe one more drink would help keep the thoughts of Lora’s impending departure from creeping in too.
We both know what this is, he’d told her.
Except he had already forgotten. “I hope you’re right.
Do you need help closing up? I know you were slammed today.
I can stay to help after this.” He took a sip of wine.
That’s when he realized that although he had been around literal truckloads of food all day, he hadn’t had a thing to eat.
“No way. You’re going to drink this and walk right across this piazza and get into bed. Vivi will be here soon, and we can handle the rest.”
“Probably for the best.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, swiping open to the notes app where he’d typed in a few quick thoughts about his speech between releasing three teenage girls stuck inside a Sani-Can and helping the band find a way to set up the speakers so that they didn’t blow up Giada’s refrigerators.
“I am completely unprepared for my speech tomorrow. Can you believe that? I don’t know what I am going to say. ”
He told Giada all about the offers from Jason in New York and Carla in London. When she asked him if any of it was tempting, he didn’t know how to answer.
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“About running for mayor again? Not really. But then I think—” He broke off to take another sip.
“I’ve got one more year on this term, plus five years after that.
Where is this going to put me at the end of another six years?
I’ll be—wait. I’ll be forty-three. Jesus Christ, forty-three! That’s old.”
“We’ll both be forty-three in six years, thank you for reminding me. It’s not old, though.” She frowned at him. “Did you eat anything today?”
“Only my pride. Do you know what it’s like to tell seven nuns who are raising money for a new sound system to hold tango classes at the elderly living facility that we still haven’t found the deposit bag with their money?”
“You’ll find it, I’m sure. Sister Agnese is probably going to have a headache for three days from all of that rum. Speaking of, I think I have some stuff for a sandwich. How about I make you something quick?”
“No, no, no,” he said, swigging down the last gulp of wine. “I’m going to go home. Promise.” He leaned over to double-kiss her good night and then turned to walk out.
“Andre.”
He turned back to Giada.
“Does she know how you feel?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know this is not about the nuns. Or the fact that you really need a shower.”
“I’m just really tired,” said Andrea, suddenly feeling like he’d pulled on a weighted backpack. “I’ll be OK tomorrow.”
“You should talk to her, you know.”
“I did. She said she missed soup but didn’t belong anywhere. Did you ever see Moonstruck?”
“The old movie with Cher where she cheats on her fiancé?”
“That’s very cynical,” he said, wagging his finger at her.
“Go to sleep, Andre,” Giada said, crossing her arms.