Chapter Thirteen
Where Is La Musa, Isabella Rhodes’s new home?—Washington Post
Why You Should Add La Musa to Your Italian Summer Itinerary—Traveler
This Quiet Clifftop Hamlet Is the Forgotten Gem of Umbria—NYT Magazine
I toss and turn all night thinking about everything: Benito, Sutton, Raffaello, Raffaello’s horrible development idea, the loss of my anonymity, the fact that La Musa is now on track to become the hottest summer travel destination thanks to me.
There’s still a way to salvage this. More tourists in town aren’t necessarily a bad thing for me.
I’ll wear hoods and sunglasses and take my meals to go and eventually, with enough positive buzz about La Musa, my presence here will be less relevant than its sprawling views and locally sourced restaurants.
It’s nearly noon when I make my way downstairs in the morning. I hear Benito and his father in the kitchen. They’re raising their voices at each other in Italian, but they stop when they see me enter. “Uh, buongiorno,” I say, with a halfhearted wave.
Raffaello relaxes and greets me with a double-cheek air-kiss. “Buongiorno, Isabella. Apologies for the loud start to the morning. My son and I have a business deal to make.”
“There is no such deal,” Benito grunts.
“My son fails to recognize that I own several buildings in La Musa, and it is my right to do with them as I please.”
Benito shakes his head. “You cannot decide, out of the blue, to bulldoze centuries-old buildings to make a buck, Papà.”
“Izzy.” Raffaello smirks in my direction, including me in an argument I have no wish to be a part of. “If you suddenly had the opportunity to make your town not just a destination but a true modern city, would you not take it?”
I look back and forth between the two Farentino men. Up until now, Benito was advocating for a similar turn for La Musa. It’s nice to find him on my side. “I don’t know if you really want my opinion.”
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the conversation halts when Vincenzo enters the room.
“Signore Farentino! Come sta?” Vincenzo goes in for the hug, which knocks Raffaello off balance ever so slightly.
Vincenzo beams. “Izzy, I know this man for quanto? Nearly my whole life. After school my wife and I tried big-city life in Roma—”
“Good to see you again, Vincenzo,” Raffaello bellows, putting a stop to the friendly conversation.
If Vincenzo is bothered by his harsh tone, he doesn’t show it, happily bouncing over to the espresso machine to make himself a shot while Raffaello readjusts to be certain his presence looms over us at all times.
While Benito emphasized that his parents relished small-town life, I’m getting the sense that part of the appeal for his father was feeling like a big fish in a small pond.
“Izzy, the rumors around town are that we have you to thank for an upcoming tourist boom.” Vincenzo fiddles with the machine that whirs to life as it cranks out hot espresso. “Isn’t that so fantastic?”
Raffaello claps his hands together. “Ah, yes, the tourists who will come here, see the state of things, turn around, leave, and never come back.” He looks pointedly at me and I wonder how such a callous, horrible man created Benito and Lucia.
Or how someone as warm and wonderful as Anita ever fell in love with him.
Benito sits up straighter. “Izzy has said from the beginning that all La Musa needs is more awareness, not to become something it is not. As someone who picked this town of all the towns in Italy to travel to, I think we should listen to her.”
My heart squeezes. “It’s true. I did say that.”
This seems to appease Raffaello a little bit as he sits at a barstool. “You made the town, how do you put it, ‘go viral,’” he says, contemplating. “You really think it can become the next trendy travel destination. The new Positano?”
I nod. “Yes. No tourists travel to Italy to see a modern, Westernized city.”
Raffaello claps his hands together. “So you’re who’s put such ideas into my son’s head.” He turns to Benito and scolds him in Italian. I can’t make out any of the words, but I think I hear traditore. Traitor.
“Izzy makes our town better.” Vincenzo pauses, turning to me. “She’s excellent company.”
Raffaello ignores him. “Well, then who am I to stand in the way. It seems you have it all figured out.” His tone teeters on the very edges of sarcasm.
If I weren’t so skilled at dissecting boomer male patronization, I might think he’s telling the truth.
I look over at Benito and he lets out the slightest of smiles.
“Then I suppose my visit was all for naught.” Raffaello leans back on the counter and takes out his cell phone. “I heard my son was dragging his feet on the development deals I’d started, and now I know why.”
Benito stares him down. “I thought you came back for Mamma.”
Raffaello sighs heavily and stands up. “Visits can have more than one purpose.” He walks over to Benito. “You must learn not to dissect everyone’s words to find meaning that suits your narrative.” He shakes his head and leaves the room.
Vincenzo and I wordlessly engage in a brief conversation of “What the fuck was that?” Benito fixes his gaze straight ahead but I can tell behind his stoic expression that he’s reeling. “You ok?” I ask.
He abruptly looks up. “Fine.” His phone rings and he steps outside to answer it.
“Minestra riscaldata, that’s Benito and Raffaello.” Vincenzo raises his eyebrows skeptically.
“What is that?”
“Another phrase for you. Reheated soup is never as good.” He side-eyes toward the front of the house where Raffaello is and I’m stunned by the impressive display of shade from always-affable Vincenzo.
“You think there’s no salvaging their relationship?”
Vincenzo shrugs. “I know I’ve never seen anyone in that family as happy as in the half year their patriarch’s been gone.”
If this is Benito happier, what was he like before? He doesn’t exude joy as it is. The biggest I’ve ever seen him smile was, well, that day in the rain. Now, if Raffaello is back for good, I fear I’ll never see him smile like that again.
“Izzy!” I hear my name when I exit Valeria’s wine shop a week later and a chill travels down my spine.
The increase in tourists hasn’t happened overnight, but there definitely are tourists here, which is a change in itself, and it makes me nervous.
I’ve yet to be recognized, thanks to my knowledge of La Musa’s back alleys, and it’s only a matter of time.
I look up hesitantly and am relieved to see Giac walking toward me.
“Giac, buona sera,” I say. He’s wearing bright peach pants and a white linen shirt, his satchel bag slung over his shoulder as always. “I thought you’d be back in Perugia for the weekend?”
He shakes his head. “My zia is out of town so I’m using the opportunity for peace and quiet.”
“Don’t you have that at home?” I ask.
“No, I live with my family. . . four younger brothers and sisters running around.” He shudders. “It’s chaos.” I make another mental note to thank my parents for never giving me a sibling. “Want to grab a drink?”
I hold up the bag of wine I just purchased. “You read my mind.”
We walk back to the house, and as I open the gate to the front yard, I see the unmistakable sleek silhouette of Sutton walking toward us. She waves and grins when she spots me, and I have no choice but to be personable. “Sutton, hi.”
“Izzy! I’ve been looking for you.”
I do my best to smile and pretend I’m at all happy about the run-in, or that she’s still here at all. She’s been seemingly utilizing every square inch of the Farentino villa as her at-home office since she’s been here, always on the phone or clacking on her laptop or both at the same time.
“I’ve convinced the family to do a Lake Como trip this weekend. We could all use the reprieve,” she says.
“Lake Como?”
“Yes, the family home.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder, and I try not to show my annoyance at her referring to it as the family home.
“We’re all heading up this evening, but you could join us tomorrow.
It’ll be the first time we’ve all been up there since.
. .” She tapers off. I know the rest. Since Raffaello left.
Since Benito and Sutton broke up. Since Isabella Rhodes was a congresswoman in the U.S.
and not in Italy making out with Sutton’s not-boyfriend.
“Well, that’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly intrude.” I’ve barely spoken to Benito all week, mostly because being around him makes me wish I never put us on pause. The last thing I want to do is watch another episode of the Sutton and Benito in Love show.
“Have you been to Lake Como?” Giac asks.
“No,” I say.
“Then you must go. It is one of my favorite places in the world.” Giac grins at Sutton.
Sutton lights up. “You could come too. . .”
“Giac.” He sticks out his hand for her to shake it.
“Giac, you are more than welcome as long as you can convince Izzy here. It’s a massive house, so don’t worry about feeling like an intrusion.”
My throat dries and I feel sweaty as I struggle to come up with an excuse. “I’m sure Anita doesn’t need two extra people to entertain.”
Sutton laughs. “Are we talking about the same woman? She loved the idea when I floated it past her, and I’ll let her know that Giac will be joining us.” Before I can say anything else she claps her hands together. “This will be great! I’ll forward you all the details. What’s your number?”
She takes out her phone and hands it to me to add my contact information. At this point it would be more uncomfortable to continue to decline her offer than it would be to go. Besides, I have always wanted to see Lake Como. I type my number. “I guess we’re going to Lake Como.”