Chapter Five #2
Benito looks down at his plate. “I think Mamma took us to the Uffizi in Florence the summer I was 16.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
Lucia gasps and claps her hands together. “I have the best idea. You two should go to Roma together.”
I glance at Benito, who’s glaring at Lucia. “Oh that’s—” I shake my head.
Benito rolls his eyes. “No.”
“Why not?” Lucia says. “I’ll take care of all the arrangements.” She gets out her phone. “It’s perfect, really. Neither of you have done it the right way, and I know how to do it the right way.”
My eyes flit to Benito, his hazel eyes sparkling in the sunlight as they glare at Lucia.
He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing his strong forearms. I dart my eyes back to my plate.
Stupid Marisol reminding me of his objective attractiveness.
“That’s so kind of you, Lucia, but I know Benito’s busy. I can go alone.”
“Benito!” Anita bellows. “You would let this poor girl who speaks no Italian travel to Rome all by herself? That is not the boy I raised.” She wields a disgusted look in his direction.
“Izzy is a strong, independent woman,” Benito says, and my heart skips a beat. Why is he always threading compliments in between his general disdain for me? “She does not need me to accompany her.”
“I really don’t,” I say, though Anita brings up a good point. Rome is a tourist-friendly city, but still, my phone translator app hasn’t proved to be as reliable as I’d hoped.
“Nonsense,” Anita says. “You will go, Benito.”
Lucia smiles, pleased with herself. Benito fixes his stare downward at his plate of pasta, effortfully twirling a long noodle to avoid commenting further on the matter.
“Can’t wait,” I say.
After lunch, I offer to clean up and Anita orders Benito to help me.
We wash dishes side by side at the large farm sink, the only sound the running water and the scratch of the sponge across the porcelain plates.
“You really don’t have to come with me,” I say, breaking the silence. “I won’t rat you out to your mom.”
Benito pauses scrubbing for a moment as though he’s considering it. “She’ll know,” he says. “Trust me.”
We both go back to scrubbing. I cannot imagine spending an entire weekend in Rome with Benito.
I used to fantasize about weekend getaways with Levi when I was in office.
We could stay at an Airbnb with sweeping views of the Chesapeake Bay or take the train up to New York City.
If I was in LA, we could drive up to Santa Barbara and stay at the cottagecore resort that sits right on the coast in Montecito. We never went, obviously.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Benito says, snapping me out of my daydream.
“Huh?” I panic for a second—can he hear my thoughts?
“I can tell by the look on your face. You look like you’re studying for an exam.”
I try to brush it off. “I’m fine. It’s just been a week.”
“What, did you move to a new continent or something?”
I roll my eyes, but his tone is less teasing, more playfully sarcastic—it teeters closer to friendly than we’ve acted thus far.
I put the plate I’m washing on the drying rack and dab my soapy hands with a towel.
I glance out the window for a moment, the view of the countryside so picture-perfect it looks like a painting.
I never liked spending time with other people’s families, but it’s surprisingly easy with the Farentinos.
Still, I don’t feel at ease. My brain churns but with no discernible train of thought.
Is it possible to feel like you’re in the exact right place and completely lost at the same time?
“Is something wrong?” Benito asks. I glance up at him, instantly brought back to earth when his eyes meet mine. He clears his throat. “I mean, with your accommodations, the house?”
“No, not at all,” I say. He continues to stare, concern filling his eyes, disarming me.
A strange feeling settles in my stomach, but it’s pleasant.
Like I’ve finally pulled myself up onto dry land when I’ve been fighting like hell not to drown.
“I think I’m realizing that I haven’t processed it all. ”
The sun starts to dip in through the big window on the other side of the kitchen counter.
Benito’s eyes are honey colored in the light.
Like a cool, refreshing glass of white wine.
I feel the sudden urge to jump in and swim in them.
His eyes narrow, cutting off that dangerous train of thought. “You mean moving here or—?”
“All of it,” I respond, actively trying not to think about Benito’s eyes. “I’m completely separated from any perception I had of myself prior to what happened.”
Benito tilts his head sideways. “You must have other interests—”
“Not really,” I reply, because it’s true. “Every single thing I did up until I was elected to Congress was to take a step toward getting elected to Congress. Everything. Even coming here as a 19-year-old.”
“Your parents, did they pressure you. . .?”
I pick up another plate and start mindlessly scrubbing. “What’s with the sudden interest in my life?”
Benito smiles. “I’m asking questions, trying to get to know you, it’s how a conversation works.”
I hesitate for a moment but continue, “They knew I was capable of a lot, but it was me. It was all me. I wanted to change the world. I wanted to settle for nothing short of changing the world.”
“Well, you were the one to save us, Izzy.” He leans toward me. “You fucked it all up.”
I can’t help but let out a laugh. “I tried,” I say, throwing my hands up in surrender, soap bubbles flinging off my fingers as I do.
“I know what you mean, though,” he says. “All I ever wanted as a kid was to go to London or to New York or Paris. My parents loved the quiet, small-town life, but I never wanted it for myself, and now. . .” He trails off.
I feel a twinge of empathy for Benito. Maybe we’re more alike than I realized. “And now you’re back.”
“Now I’m back,” he repeats.
“We’re both losers,” I say. “Is that how we ended up here?”
Benito laughs. “No, you’re the loser. You’re here because you failed and ran out of options. I’m the sad sack who chose to come back even though he swore he never would.”
My heart sinks. I’m a failure. Even Benito sees me that way. The once-great Isabella Rhodes flown in from California to stand as a monument to how quickly greatness can crumble.
He must notice my change in demeanor, because he delicately takes the plate I was washing out of my hands and dries it with a rooster-print towel. “Sorry, I don’t mean failure. I know it’s more complicated than that.”
“It’s really not,” I say back quickly. “Why do you hate La Musa so much?”
“I don’t hate it,” Benito says. I cock my head at him, unconvinced. Benito takes a deep breath. “I don’t hate it. La Musa is my home. I love it. I want more for it. That’s part of what I’m going to do here.”
“Maybe you’re too close to it and you can’t see. It’s beautiful here, and with the right exposure, more people could appreciate it,” I say.
“And maybe it’s too special to you that you can’t see it clearly either,” he says.
“You came back because you had such a wonderful study abroad experience, right?” He asks.
I nod. Benito continues, “And that’s not nothing, but it’s not a sustainable tourism business model.
La Musa needs to change, it needs to evolve. ”
I think of the aged buildings like the one we’re in right now. Other than light maintenance and upgraded technology, everything is more or less the way it’s always been. “So, what, you want to add in a Whole Foods and an Apple Store?”
Benito shakes his head. “No, of course not, but look at cities like London. The old exists alongside the new. People say they want to travel and have new experiences and see new things, but ultimately, they want to stay inside their comfort zone as much as possible. With modern touches, La Musa could become a real destination, known for more than just old buildings and pasta.”
I consider. With modern touches, wouldn’t La Musa be like every other homogenous, globalized small town in the world? “Do we really need to reshape a historical medieval hilltop fortress into a shrine to chain hotels and big box stores?” I ask.
“I don’t want that,” Benito says. “But less and less people want to live and work in small towns like this. We have very little economy, very little business. If we want to survive, we have to change.”
“No,” I say, a reflex to the rising storm in my stomach. We were having such a nice conversation, but of course he had to ruin it with talk of revitalization.
Benito laughs, amused. “No?”
“No,” I repeat. “Don’t do that. I came here because it’s nothing like the world I’m used to. There are so many other people who’d want to do the same if they knew it existed.”
“So you’re saying La Musa shouldn’t change because you, Izzy Rhodes, don’t want it to?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes,” I say. “Literally that.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I think I’ll keep to my original plan, but thank you for your input.”
He puts the last of the plates onto the drying rack and pats his hands against a dry towel, leaving the kitchen once he’s done.
I can’t let him turn La Musa into a cheesy tourist stop with branded photo ops disguised as art installations.
But at the same time, it’s really none of my business.
The public service part of my life is over. It’s not my problem to fix.