Chapter Seven #2
“Well, Beachwood Canyon if we’re being precise,” I correct him. “But my parents live down the street from Charlie Chaplin’s old house.” By the looks on their faces, this is not an impressive anecdote to two Italian tweens.
“Do you know Tom Holland?” the littler one, Antonia, asks.
“Um. . . no. I don’t.”
Antonia rolls her eyes and the two walk away.
“Horrible girls,” Valeria mutters.
“Giac,” Benito bellows, his first utterance in the time we’ve been out here. “So nice of you to join us today.”
“I had a late dinner, so I stayed the night,” Giac says, looking to me. “Plus, it was a good excuse to make more time with Izzy this morning.”
Benito’s brow furrows and he looks from Giac to me and back again. “A late dinner and you couldn’t take the early train back?”
Giac nods. “Well, I had breakfast plans, so I figured I should stay.” He smiles at me, not sensing Benito has channeled Sherlock Holmes in his line of questioning.
“And after this late dinner you slept. . .?” Benito’s talking to Giac, presumably, but he’s looking at me.
I performatively roll my eyes. Giac looks between me and Benito, picking up on the weirdness. “I slept on my zia Paola’s couch.”
“Oy, poor boy,” Valeria says.
Vincenzo does the sign of the cross. “Next time, my boy, you stay with us.”
Valeria grins. “Or even with Izzy!”
Benito glares at her.
“Is it time for lunch?” I ask, desperate for a respite from the conversation at hand.
As if on cue, Anita clinks her fork to a wine glass. “Lunch is served, assuming my children help me bring it all out.” Benito grunts and dutifully follows his mother into the kitchen. Lucia, with one of her children on her hip, motions for her husband to join him.
We sit, and Anita brings platters of food as per usual. She sets a vat of pasta al pomodoro right in front of me. “For our vegetarian,” she says with a wink. I dive in, ignoring any semblance of mealtime decorum, and once again get swept away by the perfect balance of flavors in Anita’s cooking.
“Izzy, Vincenzo, Valeria, you must tell me,” Lucia starts, “how is my brother as a mayor?”
“Dio Mio, Lucia. They are not here to discuss something so boring.” Benito rolls his eyes and pours himself a glass of wine.
“I do not mean to have a full performance review, I just want to know how he’s adjusting to life back in Italy.” Her littlest kid, who can’t be more than two, starts fussing, and Lucia effortlessly pulls him into her lap. “I worry about him being so far from his beloved London.”
“He does quite well. Non preoccuparti.” Vincenzo tucks his napkin into his shirt collar as he piles pasta onto his plate.
“He’s a tough but fair ruler.” Vincenzo starts laughing.
“No, no, I kid! But he is doing a fine job. And it helps that he has this one to, how you say, keep him in line at home.” He points at me.
“Who? Me?” I say. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Lucia’s eyes widen in delight. “Ah, he has a woman to keep him on his toes. He’ll do just fine, then.”
Benito rolls his eyes again.
“My son has always loved women. Always appreciated a strong woman,” Anita starts.
Benito turns bright red and I stifle a laugh.
I have yet to feel appreciated, but maybe it’s because Benito does not see me as strong.
Anita continues, “Ever since he was a little boy—women at the mercato, little girls on the playground, he had to copy exactly what they were doing.”
“Mamma—”
“Oh, is that right?” I ask, knowing this is killing Benito. “And are you sure it was out of appreciation and not fear?”
Benito turns to me with a glum expression that almost takes the joy out of the moment.
“My, my Isabella, I am sure it is both,” Anita says with a hearty laugh.
“Oh, don’t make that face, Benitino,” Lucia says, waving her hand. “We tease because we love. Besides, all this has made you in shape to be a perfect man for Sutton.”
I feel a chill of guilt trickle down my spine, then embarrassment. Sutton. I hate the reminder that the rush I felt when I was in bed with Benito in Rome, my skin mere centimeters from his, was one-sided, solo longing.
I look up to see Benito staring right at me. Does he know?
“Speaking of,” Lucia continues, “when will this mysterious British goddess be gracing us with her presence? Six months is a long time to go with no visit.”
“You haven’t seen your fidanzata in six months?” Valeria asks.
Vincenzo nearly does a spit-take. “I have not spent more than a few hours away from Valeria since the day we met.” He shoots Valeria a loving glance.
“Papà, don’t tell people that.” A horrified Beatrice hides her face in her hands.
Vincenzo ignores her. “My boy, this is not acceptable.”
“He went to see her a few months ago, but she does not come here,” Lucia says with a hefty amount of side-eye.
“The one girl in all the world who hates Italy,” Anita mutters.
Benito drains his wine glass and pours himself another. “It is hard for her to leave work. I have told you this.”
Anita leans back in her chair. “And we are supposed to love her when she cares more about work than my son.”
“Benito,” Vicenzo starts, “you must insist. We all need to meet her and make sure she’s good enough for our lionhearted mayor.” He turns to me. “Lionhearted. . . did I use that right?”
“Yes, although I’m not sure I agree with the sentiment—”
“Yes, bring her here,” Giac adds. “Maybe we can go on a double date.” He looks at me and smiles. I didn’t realize we were anywhere near the “planning future dates” phase of this mild flirtation, but I sense he’s merely contributing to the spirited teasing.
Lucia lights up. “Yes! Oh my god, just picture the four of you together: the perfect picture of the future of La Musa.”
Benito slams his glass onto the table, and it makes a considerable thud. Wine splashes out and everyone grows quiet. Realizing the drama of what he’s just displayed, Benito sighs and starts to blot the wine with his napkin. Thankfully it’s pinot bianco and won’t stain. “Sorry,” he grunts.
He gets up from the table. “Sorry,” he says again before walking inside the house.
“He has a hot head,” Lucia says, waving it off like it’s nothing. “He does not like to be teased about Sutton. He just needs to cool down.”
“Ah, like that Tom Holland,” says Vincenzo. Everyone looks at him, confused. “Beatrice, Antonia, you always talk about how hot his head is.” I wonder if he’s confused on the translation, but the sparkle in his eyes as both his daughters shoot him a horrified expression confirms otherwise.
“Papà,” they yell in unison.
The conversation returns to its normal flow, and everyone continues eating.
I clear my plate and Benito does not return.
I pour myself a second glass of wine, no Benito.
Anita brings out dessert. Still he’s not back.
There’s a pit in my stomach that I realize is concern.
Halfway through my tiramisù, I excuse myself to use the restroom.
I hear the voices outside switch to Italian as I enter the house, and I feel a pang of guilt to know they were only speaking English on my account.
The first-floor bathroom is down the hall toward the front of the house, but I duck my head into each room I pass, looking for Benito.
He’s not in the formal living room, the study, the parlor—or at least I think that’s what that’s called—the other living room, his father’s office, or the kitchen.
I peek my head out the front windows to make sure there’s no one brooding on the stoop.
The grand marble staircase seems to be beckoning me upstairs, luring me in with its dancing light and smiling family photos. I take a quick look around to make sure that no one else has followed me inside and ascend to the second floor.
I’ve done my best to keep to my end of the hallway, and it would be invasive for me to open every single one of the solid wood doors that line the hallway—what if there’s something I don’t want to see?
Maybe Benito has Sutton locked up in a room, chained to her bed like a scene fresh out of a modern-day Jane Eyre.
I see that the door on the other side of Benito’s room is open. I always assumed the rest of the hall was filled with more bedrooms, quarters for guests and maids from back when the house was built. I walk toward it.
I see him before I even reach the room. He’s hunched over a writing desk, scribbling in a leather-bound journal.
I wonder if I should turn around and leave him alone.
After all, Lucia said he needed time to cool off, but did he really need more than 10 minutes to recover from mild to moderate mocking?
The old wood floor creaks and Benito looks up, understandably surprised to see me walking toward him. “What are you doing here?”
I freeze. It’s a good question. What exactly am I doing here? I entered the house clear on my intent to find him, but I hadn’t settled on a mission statement. “I don’t know,” is all I can say.
“If my sister sent you—”
“She didn’t.” I survey the rest of the room. It’s large with vertical windows lining the south-facing wall, but empty. Other than the writing desk, a tiny bookshelf next to it, and an armchair, there’s no other furniture in the room. The walls are blank. “What is this room?”
“My office.”
“It’s empty.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting any guests.” His eyes narrow. “Why are you in here?”
I collapse into the armchair. It’s old-looking with an outdated green paisley-patterned fabric and its cushion’s thinned to the point where I can feel the frame of the chair underneath. “This is not comfortable.”
“Izzy. . .” He turns in his chair to face me, and I have to confront the true reason why I followed him up here.
“You were upset. I wanted to make sure you were ok.” The words leave my lips before I have a chance to double-check that they’re true. The way my stomach settles when his face relaxes into a smile confirms to me that they are.
“I’m fine. I just needed a break,” he says.
“You don’t like to be teased?” I let the corners of my mouth turn upward in his presence for the first time in days.
“No, I like to think I can handle myself in such situations.” The corners turn even more upward. “It’s not that.” He looks down and twiddles with his fingers.
“What is it, then?” I ask, with a sinking feeling it might be something like I miss my girlfriend terribly and the mere mention of her, the love of my life, makes me fall into a deep depression as I only have eyes for her. Not that it would matter to me.
“Things with Sutton are complicated,” he says.
Complicated because her beauty is beyond that of human comprehension or complicated in that she has had an unfortunate breakdown and rather than get her the help she so needs I have locked her in the attic? “Complicated?”
“We broke up.”
His eyes flit up and lock with mine. I take a sharp inhale to keep myself from reacting outwardly. He smiles, resigned, which releases a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. “What?” is all I can muster.
“When I left London, we said we’d take a break, and I went back three months ago to call it off officially.
” He leans back in his chair and rolls up the sleeves of his button-down to his elbows.
There’s a flutter somewhere south of my waist at the sight of his forearms, but I try to block it out.
The air feels thick suddenly, and I struggle to heave in a breath.
“Why is it a secret?” I ask once I can speak again, my voice coming out as barely a whisper.
He sighs, reaching his hand out toward the door and pushing it closed.
Though everyone’s outside, it feels as though we’re truly alone for the first time since Rome.
He scoots his chair closer to me, the edges of his knees brushing against mine.
“If my mother knew I broke up with her to move here, she’d blame herself.
” He lowers his voice as though the solid oak door and the 3,000 square feet between us and his family is not enough of a barrier. “So I pretend I’m still dating her.”
I’m not a fan of this trend where I find out I misjudged Benito and he’s actually a selfless angel who deserves to be sainted and not a pompous curmudgeon.
Or at least, I try to convince myself I don’t like it, when really any evidence that he’s a compassionate, loving human being makes me want to reach out and touch him.
To my own appalment, I place a hand on his knee. Benito looks at my hand and then quickly back to me, his eyebrows arched high. I pull away. “That’s incredibly kind. But it’s been half a year, I’m sure she’d understand.”
Benito leans forward so I get a whiff of that pine and lemon scent, which upon further investigation in our shared bathroom, I’ve learned is his body wash.
“She’d never say it in front of company, but she feels terrible that I came back.
She thinks I did it for her, not because I wanted to, and it kills her.
” He rubs his left forearm with his right hand, and it takes every ounce of mental strength to focus on his words.
“I just have to make enough of a life for myself here for her to believe me and then I’ll tell her. ”
“Can’t you tell Lucia?” I ask. “It’s not fair that you have to keep up appearances with your entire family.
” I want him to tell her, I realize. I want someone else to know that Benito is not in love with Sutton.
It’s become as important to me as making sure Benito was ok after he stormed out of lunch, though I don’t know why.
Benito smirks. “I’m sure she would be thrilled, but Lucia cannot keep a secret for more than one glass of wine.”
Benito is not with Sutton. Benito is single.
The confounding attraction I felt for him that night in Rome may not have been one-sided after all.
I let my eyes fall into his and I wonder if he can see the realization as it dawns over me.
The longer we hold eye contact, the more his face softens.
I flash a quick smile at him, my guilt for what transpired in Rome assuaged.
Benito’s chest heaves and I’m sure if I were to touch a finger to his wrist, I’d feel his quickened pulse, beat-for-beat with mine.
A door shuts downstairs, startling us both, but we still remain sitting there, eyes locked.
“I’m sure you want to get back to your guest,” Benito says, his voice small.
I look to him, confused.
“Giac,” he clarifies.
My face falls. Giac. “Oh, yes. Of course.” I stand up and he gestures for me to lead the way back downstairs.
Before I exit the room, he grabs my hand to stop me. It’s the smallest of touches and yet my entire body stirs in response.
“Izzy,” he says, not letting go of my hand. “Thank you.”