Chapter Four
By the next day, I am situated enough to want to go out and explore.
While I was doing my essentials shopping, La Musa was more alive than it first seemed.
The bread baker at the panetteria sold me three loaves of ciabatta for three euro.
I offered one to Anita as a thank you for feeding me with her leftovers, which she waved off.
“You are always welcome to eat whatever’s in the house, Izzy,” she said, but my congressional sensibilities don’t allow me to accept generosity without giving something in return.
I bought six bottles of the locally made Umbrian Rosso from the wine shop and stashed them in the cupboard Anita set aside for me.
The Farentinos are well stocked on linens, but I bought my own laundry detergent and soap, or at least what I could best guess was soap based on context clues.
I updated my data plan this afternoon so I can use my translation app more reliably.
By nightfall, I am sufficiently set up as a person who actually lives here, and yet completely restless at the idea of sitting in my bedroom for the third night in a row.
Bar Musa was the local hangout spot when I was a student, so I put on my one sort-of-sexy black dress and head out.
It’s short and low cut and I immediately regret not wearing a jacket.
It’s not like there’s a wealth of single men in La Musa.
As Vincenzo pointed out to me this morning, there’s hardly anyone in La Musa who’s old enough to drive but too young for laugh lines, but I’ll take a silver fox widower if there’s one available.
It’s been way too long since I’ve been touched, and my skin still burns from the memory of where Levi put his hands.
I need a reset. I need new sensory memories.
I need to get my yayas out, as Marisol would say.
In Washington I was too careful; I knew a secret tryst could be the downfall of my entire career—how ironic that waiting for Levi had the exact same result.
A sex scandal with barely any sex. It’s all totally unfair.
So, I’m in my short dress with as much cleavage as my B-cups can reasonably give.
My “California bronde” hair blow-dried straight for once instead of tied back in my signature power bun.
I wear black flats because I know better than to risk the near-fatal combination of heels, cobblestone, and alcohol.
It’s been so long since I’ve been to a bar.
I used to drink with the other freshmen members at a dingy dive bar in Capitol Hill, but once that became impossible, my social life basically disappeared.
Bar Musa’s tucked into a corner in the same piazza as the duomo. It’s a cozy spot with only half a dozen tables inside but a patio that overflows when it’s nice out with locals and tourists alike.
Or at least, it used to be full of tourists.
With the picture Benito painted of the town, I expect it to be empty. I’m surprised when I walk inside to find it mostly full. I scan the room and see mostly couples huddled around the small tables, drinking wine and catching up. No single, hot, one-night-stand-worthy men yet, but it’s early.
I go to the bar and order a martini extra dry.
The bartender nods through my shaky Italian and repeats the order back in English, to which I humiliatingly nod.
Once I have my drink, I settle into a chair at the end of the bar.
Back when I had anonymity, I used to love going to bars by myself.
There was a bird-themed local haunt near my parents’ house in Beachwood with red vinyl booths and a long wooden bar.
I’d sit there and eavesdrop on the conversations between washed-up celebrity has-beens, weirdo Hollywood locals, and performers from the comedy theater next door.
Now, I can barely make out a brindiamo from a grazie.
Maybe coming here alone was a bad idea. I wonder what Benito’s doing tonight—but he’s not exactly good company.
“Izzy?” The sound of my name sends a chill down my spine.
I turn to see where it’s coming from, expecting to find an American tourist who waywardly made their way to La Musa and is about to out my location to the world.
Instead, I see Vincenzo holding hands with a stunning woman.
She’s wearing a slip dress, with her dark, shiny hair in perfect curls past her shoulders.
Vincenzo waves. “Izzy! That is you!” He walks over and hugs me, the contact catching me off guard and nearly toppling me off the barstool.
The woman with him barely reacts, which gives me the sense she knows this is something Vincenzo does all of the time.
“Hi,” I say to her, “I’m Izzy.”
Vincenzo facepalms. “Oh my goodness. I am so sorry. I did not introduce.” He drapes his arm around the woman. “This is my wife, Valeria.”
I stick my hand out, but Valeria quickly dismisses it, instead pulling me into a chic air-kiss on each cheek. “Izzy,” she says, “it is so wonderful to meet you. Vincenzo speaks so highly of you.”
I smile at her. I have talked to Vincenzo maybe three times, but it’s kind of her to say that. “Lovely to meet you,” I say. “And likewise. Vincenzo speaks of you and your girls constantly.”
Valeria rolls her eyes. “I am surprised to hear that. They are horrible teenagers.”
“They are staying with friends tonight,” Vincenzo says. “When the cat’s away the mice will play.” He winks at me. “That’s the saying, right?”
“That’s right,” I say, not really sure if it applies here, but I’m touched that he’s making an effort. I turn to Valeria. “Vincenzo’s taught me a few Italian phrases.”
“Ah,” Valeria says, turning to her husband with genuine admiration. “Then you’ll be fluent in Italian in no time. In idioms, at least.”
Vincenzo beams with pride. “Valeria studied English at the university in Roma. She’s taught me everything I know.”
He looks on the verge of tears again, so I gesture toward the bartender. “Can I buy you both a drink?”
We trade the barstools for a table in the corner of the bar and split a bottle of wine Vincenzo recommends.
It’s a Sangiovese from Montepulciano in nearby Tuscany, dry but robust. Valeria tells me she inherited the wine shop in town and has been running it for the past decade after her father retired.
“What made you decide to work for the Farentinos?” I ask Vincenzo.
He shrugs. “My father used to manage their estate before me, so it is how it always was to be.” It seems to be par for the course in La Musa. Maybe you leave town for university and your early adulthood, but everyone always comes back when it’s time to take over the family business.
There’s a quaintness to it that makes me ache with jealousy.
My parents were environmental lawyers. While their work inspired my affinity for community organizing and public service, I would’ve dressed as an off-brand cartoon character on the Walk of Fame before I went to law school and followed in their footsteps.
“What made you want to move to La Musa, Izzy?” Valeria asks.
I debate how much to tell them and settle on an abbreviated version of the truth. “I studied here in college—my university used to have a program here. Do you know it?”
Valeria nods enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. Of course. We all remember the days when dozens of American college students would fill the streets of La Musa in the summer.”
“They were like centaurs,” Vincenzo says. “Half man, half beast.” Valeria gives him a stern look. “Though I’m sure our Izzy was not like that,” he says.
I laugh. “No, I understand how a bunch of college students let loose in a town where we could suddenly drink legally would be annoying.” I take a sip of wine.
“I really was here to study, though.” Truthfully, I knew how good foreign programs would look on my transcript, how good international experience would look to future voters.
Everything I did in college, and everything since, had been to support my dream.
“So you’ve come back now, what, five years later?” Valeria says with a wink. I love her.
“Give or take,” I say. I take another sip.
“My life back in the States”—I’m a person who says “the States” now—“was. . . complicated. I just remember everything here being so delightfully uncomplicated. Not to say it’s easy or free from drama, but the pace of life is much slower, in a good way. I need that.”
Valeria and Vincenzo smile at each other. “Well, brindiamo to that,” Valeria says, raising her glass.
I’m significantly drunk by the time Vincenzo opens our third bottle.
The door to the bar swings open and I do a double take at the man who walks inside.
He’s young, probably mid–late 20s, way outside the normal age range of La Musa residents as has been reported to me.
He’s handsome. Wildly handsome. His face is innocent looking with wide eyes and a round jaw, but there’s a vitality to his swagger as he walks through the bar.
I feel my cheeks redden and press one of my cool hands to my face.
Valeria tracks my eyes to the man and back.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Izzy?” she asks.
I blush even harder. “No,” I say. “No, not at all.”
She smiles and shares a knowing look with Vincenzo, elbowing him in the gut and nodding toward the handsome stranger. Vincenzo takes the hint and raises his hand in the air. “Giacomo, my boy,” he says. The man turns and lights up when he sees Vincenzo. He walks over to our table.
He and Vincenzo exchange a quick conversation in Italian before Vincenzo points to me. “This is my new friend, Izzy from California.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “Izzy, this is Giac.”