Chapter Twenty Guinevere #2
The truth was, we did exist in a bubble.
My family did not know him, and aside from the obvious problem of him living in Italy, they would be appalled by the age difference, even though it seemed trivial to me.
I did not know his family, and he did not take us to visit Villa Romano even though I kept asking for stories of it when it had been his happy place.
I did not tell him about Gemma’s complicated life, and he did not tell me why he thought he was so undeserving of goodness in his life.
It was a defense mechanism, I thought. Keeping the last corners of our souls hidden from one another in hopes the pain wouldn’t be so great when it was all over.
But still, I waited for those three words.
Not “I love you,” but “Will you stay?”
Martina pulled away only to shake my shoulders, clucking her tongue at me in disappointment. “ Uffa! You are both blind, standing too close to see each other properly.”
“Hey,” I protested. “I’m pretty sure you’re in love with Renzo, and you haven’t done a thing about it. So pot, meet kettle.”
A reluctant smile tugged her mouth. In many ways, she reminded me of Raffa.
Both of them used their good looks and sharp wit to draw attention away from their soft spots.
They had the typical Italian characteristic of saying what they thought even if it wasn’t very nice or diplomatic, and they both refused to suffer fools.
But Martina was a woman, and therefore she understood me in ways Raffa probably could not.
“You could tell him,” she suggested, moving back to her tomatoes.
Servio came into the kitchen then and hummed under his breath as he checked the beef slow roasting in the oven.
When he noticed we were having a heart-to-heart, he covered his ears, then zipped his mouth closed and mimed throwing away the key.
I watched him for a moment as he moved to the countertop lined with watermelons we had to cut up after the tomatoes.
Apparently, lasagna or pasta with meat sauce, steak, and watermelon were the traditional offerings on San Lorenzo Day.
They even had a free dinner and party with live music in the city, but Raffa had insisted we host a party.
I thought it might have been his way of giving me a going-away party too.
A chance to celebrate with all the people I had met in Florence while I still could.
Even Signora Verga was coming. My meager guest list was amplified by Raffa’s, Martina’s, Renzo’s, Carmine’s, and Ludo’s friends as well.
Servio had told me earlier he was preparing to feed sixty people.
“I’ve thought about it,” I admitted, turning back to Martina. “But I keep telling myself there is no point. So what if I ... care about him? My life is in Michigan.”
“For the last six weeks, your life has been here,” she pointed out dryly. “And as a very entertained spectator, I have to say, it seems to be going very well.”
“Six weeks is still a vacation. We haven’t been living in reality.”
She planted a hand on her hip and leveled me with a look that reminded me of my mother. “Why does it feel like you are reading these issues off cue cards?”
I flushed and shrugged. “I may have made a list. I like to be organized. So sue me.”
“ Chi non risica non rosica ,” she said. “She who does not risk does not get the rose.”
“No risk, no reward?” I snorted. “Really, Marti?”
She glowered at my use of the nickname, but I thought she secretly liked it, because she hadn’t told me to fuck off yet.
“Fine, do what you want. Mess up both your lives and mine by extension because I’ll have to be the one to deal with his mopey ass when you leave.”
“Are you almost done with the salad?” Carmine asked, coming into the kitchen in a vest, button-up, and trousers like he was about to walk the Versace runway and not cook in the kitchen with us.
“Raffa gave me permission to duck out of work and focus on what really matters.” He pointed at me. “Tiramisu.”
“The key is making the ladyfingers from scratch.” I echoed the words he had been telling me since last week, when I’d agreed to help him make dessert for the festivities. “I know. I took a peek in the pantry, and they turned out really well.”
We had left them overnight so they could dry out, all the better to absorb the coffee-and-liquor mixture.
Carmine pressed a hand to his heart. “My angel.”
“Stop flirting with cerbiatta mia , Carmine,” Raffa drawled as he came into the kitchen in bare feet. “I gave you permission to cook with her. Not to try to steal her away.”
Next to Carmine’s trussed-up finery and grooming, Raffa looked casual in his black trousers and thin knit sweater with the sleeves pushed to his elbows.
His hair was still a bit mussed from the make-out break we’d taken a couple of hours ago, and I hoped he hadn’t had a Zoom meeting because he also had lipstick on his throat.
“Ha! Like I’d ever leave you for the likes of Carmine,” I scoffed, leaning back into Raffa as he pressed up behind me and planted a kiss on my bare shoulder. “If you’re going to be jealous, I’d worry most about Servio.”
The eighty-year-old cook froze in the act of making six batches of lasagna, eyes wide.
“What?” I said into the silence. “Any woman in her right mind would consider being with Servio for his tortellini alone.”
Martina snorted, and Carmine made an insulted noise in the back of his throat.
But Raffa laughed into my hair.
“Are your friends coming?” he asked, kissing my neck.
I squirmed. Even though I’d woken up to his mouth between my thighs while I lay on my stomach in the bed and then come twice when he canted my hips up and fucked me into the mattress, I was still on edge with lust. Knowing I only had two more days to take my fill was definitely a factor.
“Yes,” I breathed before clearing my throat. “Bibi and Ramesh asked if they could bring a Guyanese dish, and I said of course. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course. They are welcome here, and it will be interesting to have something other than the usual spread.”
Servio grumbled at that, but we both ignored him.
“I made my mom’s recipe for potato salad,” I told him. “She makes it every summer for the Fourth of July, and obviously I missed that because I was here, so I thought it might be nice to add to the celebration.”
I turned my head to catch Raffa looking into the distance, and I wondered if he was imagining spending the Fourth of July with me in some alternate reality where we could have that kind of future.
He blinked, and the moment was gone.
“What did you think of the Corteo Storico della Repubblica Fiorentina?”
Ludo, Martina, and I had gone to the parade in front of the Basilica of San Lorenzo that morning while Raffa worked with the others. I’d hoped he would go with me, but I knew before he made an excuse that he wouldn’t.
It was like he was trying to ease us apart by degrees.
I wanted to shout at him that it wouldn’t hurt any less to rip the bandage off slowly.
“It was amazing,” I breathed. “The historical outfits, the suits of armor, the drummers and the trumpeters. I honestly didn’t know where to look.”
“She was like a kid in a candy store,” Martina teased. “I was almost embarrassed by her enthusiasm.”
“You were the one to first shout ‘ Viva San Lorenzo ,’” Ludo reminded her.
She threw a slice of tomato at him.
The atmosphere in the kitchen stilled for one vibrating moment.
“No,” Raffa told me, stepping away from me.
Carmine held up his hands to shield his fine suit. “ Assolutamente no .”
Martina and I shared a look before both reaching for the huge bowls of sliced tomatoes in front of us.
“Food fight!” I hollered, turning to hurl a handful of tomatoes at Raffa.
They landed with a splat on his back as he twisted away from me. He froze, staring in shock at the hit, before lifting his gaze to mine.
“You will regret that,” he promised.
“You’ll have to catch me first,” I declared, grabbing the bowl and then running away with it.
Behind me, I could hear Ludo and Carmine hurling insults at each other in Italian and Martina’s wild cackle of delight.
A second later, the steady fall of Raffa’s feet as he chased after me.
“ Attenta, cerbiatta, il cacciatore viene a prenderti ,” Raffa called after me.
Careful, little fawn, the hunter is coming for you.
I hid behind the corner at the entrance to the music room, trying to calm my breathing so he wouldn’t hear me as he approached.
He stalked into the room like the hunter he’d claimed to be, so I should have known I couldn’t catch him by surprise, but I tried anyway.
I jumped out, trying to lift the bowl of tomatoes over his head, but he caught me around the wrist and wrenched it down so the bowl wavered and fell between us, coating our torsos in multicolored heritage tomatoes.
Raffa blinked at the mess I’d made of both of us and the terra-cotta tiles at our feet before sighing dramatically. “I warned you, little fawn.”
I screeched as he ducked, the steel bowl falling with a clang to the floor. He put a shoulder to my belly and lifted me in a fireman’s carry before taking off on firm strides down the corridor to our bedroom.
I banged on his back. “I’m needed in the kitchen, Raffa.”
“You’re needed over my knee, Vera,” he corrected. “Thanks to your little stunt, I now have an insatiable need to see this fine ass as red as a tomato.”
“People will arrive soon,” I argued, even though something in my belly heated at the idea of being spanked. It wasn’t something we had done yet, but it was a fantasy I’d had for years, touching myself at night and imagining what some faceless, handsome older guy might do to me if I acted out.
Probably a classic fantasy for a repressed good girl like me to have, but that didn’t make it any less sexy.
Raffa tossed the door shut behind us and dropped me gently to my feet, immediately stepping out of my reach.