Chapter Five
“I’m going to have sex with Giac,” I say to Marisol on the phone a few days later.
I have spoken to Giac exactly three times including our introduction at the bar, but I need the distraction.
Yesterday, I saw him as I was tonguing two scoops of gelato stracciatella in a cone.
He said “Gelato?” and I, through a mouthful of vanilla bean and chocolate chips, replied, “Sì.”
“I am,” I say. “I need a passionate affair that makes me realize love is the only thing that really matters.”
“I don’t think you can go into it hoping to force that lesson,” Marisol says.
I hear the faint drone of cable news in the background.
I do my best to tune it out. She continues, “Besides, love is not the only thing that matters. Humans can survive without love, we can’t survive without clean water, affordable food, and shelter.
Those are the things that really matter. ”
I lean back on my bed, putting my phone on speaker and resting it next to me because the action of holding it to my ear is too much effort. “Can you turn off the politicking for like, one second.”
“No,” Marisol says with a little laugh. “Sorry, Giac. You’re going to have sex with Giac.”
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
“I’m 100% supportive of you banging as much as possible now that you’re not in Congress,” she says.
“Right?” I say. “And Giac is perfect. He’s the only young, single person around, but even in spite of that. He doesn’t actually live in La Musa, so if it goes horribly wrong, it’s relatively easy to avoid him.”
“Always a good reason to sleep with someone,” Marisol says, and I’m honestly not sure if she means that or if it’s her dry sense of humor and she’s mocking me.
“He’s hot, I’m attracted to him, I need to get laid, and he’s hot.” I sit up, my energy suddenly renewed with fresh purpose. “I’m going to fuck Giac.”
There’s a knock on my door. “Is that you or me?” Marisol asks.
“Me,” I respond. “Hold on.” I walk over to the door with my phone still in my hand and open it. Benito is standing on the other side. I pray he didn’t hear any of our conversation. “Benito?”
“Who’s Benito?” Marisol asks.
I quickly press the phone into my shoulder to muffle the sound of her voice. “What’s up?” I ask.
Benito shuffles from one foot to the other. “It’s Sunday.”
I stare at him, waiting for more. “Thank you for the reminder.”
He shakes his head. “My mother wants me to invite you to family lunch. It’s a whole ordeal every Sunday. My sister’s taken the train down from Siena. You are under no obligation if you do not want to—”
“I’d love to come,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been daydreaming about your mom’s pasta all week, so I’m happy to indulge in round two.”
“Great.” Benito nods.
“Noon?” I ask.
Benito nods again. “Noon. Out back.” He smiles briefly, flashing a quick wave before walking off.
I put the phone back up to my ear. “Sorry, I’m back.” I brace for Marisol’s response.
“You failed to mention a Benito.”
“He’s the mayor,” I say, lowering my voice. “And he’s horrible, so it wasn’t worth bringing up.”
Marisol goes quiet for a moment, and I hear typing then clicking in the background. She gasps. “Wait, he’s hot.”
“How did you find him that fast?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” she says. “What’s his deal?”
“He has a girlfriend,” I say.
“No, I mean, why is he in your house?” I can hear the smile in Marisol’s voice.
“He lives here,” I say. “This is his mom’s house.”
I can hear Marisol calculating in her head. “Interesting,” is all she says.
“Not really,” I say, before she can imply there’s reason to be happy there’s a hot man living in the bedroom next door. Not that I think Benito’s hot. I mean, I do, but not that it particularly matters. “Ok, I have to go. Try to get some sleep.”
Marisol laughs. “You know I won’t.”
It’s warm and humid as I walk back to the house from Valeria’s wine shop.
It’s thankfully open on Sundays, because even though the Farentino home is technically my home, I don’t want to show up to lunch empty-handed.
My yellow sundress keeps sticking to the back of my thighs, which is unfortunate because I don’t have a free hand with a bottle of wine in one and a bouquet of flowers that I picked up at the farmers market on the way home in the other.
I tuck the bottle of wine under my arm when I reach the large oak door and quickly adjust my dress before walking inside. A beautiful, warm-looking young woman I don’t recognize opens the door before I can. I purport her to be Benito’s sister. “Hi— Buongiorno,” I say.
She smiles and of course has one of those smiles that lights up her whole face. “Buongiorno! You must be Izzy?” Her voice is dripping in that same caramelly accent as Anita, and I realize she looks a lot like Benito, especially when the sun hits her hazel eyes.
“Hi, yes, and are you—?”
“Benito’s sister, Lucia.”
“Piacere,” I say.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you. My brother speaks highly of you.”
I look around. Did I accidentally walk into an alternate universe? “He does?”
She widens the door and gestures for me to enter. “Everyone’s out back.” I walk through the door and am immediately hit with the intoxicating aromas of Anita’s cooking. Garlic, basil, onion, pepper. My stomach growls.
Lucia leads me through the front of the house, past the staircase with the photos, through a formal dining room and a grand living room, and another hallway with multiple doors, a part of the house I’ve respectfully avoided, until we’re finally in another living room with floor-to-ceiling glass doors that are flung open to flow seamlessly into the backyard.
Lucia reaches out her arms. “Let me take that,” she says, gesturing toward the wine and the bouquet.
I hand her both. “Please make sure your mom knows they’re from me. We haven’t seen much of each other this week, and I want her to know I appreciate her hospitality and her letting me stay in her home.”
Lucia laughs breezily. “Please, you are doing her a favor. She loves having guests.” She winks at me.
“Benito!” She yells something in Italian at him and he quickly jumps into action, walking over to me with a bottle of wine and an empty glass.
Lucia pats him on the head like an obedient golden retriever before disappearing inside, leaving me and Benito alone.
“Your sister is lovely,” I say.
Benito hands me the glass, now full of wine. “She’s demanding.”
“And you bend to her every will. I didn’t think you were someone to follow another’s orders.”
Benito scoffs, “When I was a boy it was either that or psychological torture, so I am conditioned.”
“Pavlov’s little brother,” I say.
Benito grabs a glass off a nearby table and pours wine for himself. “More like the Stanford Prison Experiment. No one’s a bigger perpetrator of forceful power and manipulation than an older sister.”
I nod. “Remind me to thank my parents for only having one.”
There’s an awkward silence. I take in the splendor of the yard. There’s a swing hanging off a tree, a patio with antique furniture, a sparkling swimming pool, a giant table where I assume we’ll be eating, and a spectacular view of the countryside.
The French doors to the kitchen swing open and Anita emerges carrying a large platter of pasta.
“If only I had two strong children to help me serve,” she says.
Benito dutifully walks over to her and takes the platter from her hands.
Lucia and Benito take turns disappearing inside and returning with more food: whole branzino, fresh greens, homemade gnocchi, caprese with fresh mozzarella di bufala.
I wonder if we’re expecting more people, but when I remember the trays of leftovers in Anita’s fridge last week, I realize this is par for the course.
I dig in when instructed and am once again knocked over by the perfection of Anita’s cooking.
I wash down an especially generous helping of pesto gnocchi with a glass of crisp Umbrian white wine.
“Benito and Lucia, you have no idea how lucky you are to have grown up with a world-class chef for a mother,” I say.
“My mother was a great mom, but her culinary expertise started and ended with a takeout menu.”
Lucia grins. “Lucky indeed. Though Benito, not so much. Was the food this good at St. George’s?”
Benito shakes his head. “Hardly.”
“You can blame your father for that,” Anita says. “I was perfectly content to have both of you educated here.” It’s the first time I’ve heard Anita mention the father who is not dead but gone.
Lucia and Benito share a look. Lucia reaches for the bottle of wine at the center of the table and refills her glass. “So, Izzy,” she says, changing the subject. “Have you explored much of Italy since you’ve been here?”
“Not really,” I say. “I’ve been focused on getting settled. I haven’t really thought of where else I’d go.”
“You must,” Lucia says. “It’s a beautiful country, and La Musa is perfectly central for exploring. Two hours to Rome, two hours to Florence.”
“You sound like one of your tourism brochures, Lucia,” Benito grunts.
Anita leans in toward me. “Lucia and her husband run a guided tour company out of Siena.”
“Siena, the Ohio of Tuscany,” Benito quips.
Lucia waves off Benito, dismissing him. “Don’t listen to him. He’s barely been anywhere in Italy except the airports.”
“I’ve been to Siena,” I say. “I loved it.”
“Thank you, Izzy,” Lucia says, passing me the bottle of wine.
“I was actually thinking about going to Rome this weekend,” I say. It was half an idea, really, because I was watching a Housewives cast trip to Rome last night. “I’ve been once but only for a few hours, and it was such a blur.”
“That’s a wonderful idea!” Lucia says. “Roma offers so much. History, culture, fabulous food—”
Benito scoffs. “Lucia, she said she is going, you do not have to sell her on it.”
“And maybe I should be selling you,” she says, flicking her wrist at Benito. “When was the last time you were anywhere in Italy besides La Musa or Milano with papà?”