Chapter Thirteen #2
Giac offers to drive us and picks me up at the crack of dawn the next morning. “Nice car,” I say as I open the door to Giac’s tiny Fiat, ducking to avoid hitting my head as I get in. I’m wearing a chambray romper and white sneakers, with my hair pulled back in a silk headband.
“It’s actually my aunt’s,” he says, “but she isn’t allowed to drive.”
“Oh, has she lost her eyesight?” I ask.
“No,” Giac says. “It was a town ordinance. Everyone voted and said, no more.”
“Oh.” I can tell from Giac’s rigid shoulders that it’s an uncomfortable subject. “Do you travel often?” I ask.
He glances over at me, which is slightly unnerving as we whip down the narrow cliffside road.
“As much as school is on break. I spent a year traveling all over Europe, Asia, Africa. It was the best year of my life.” He merges onto the autostrada, speeding up.
“What about you? Your job must have taken you all over.”
“Not really.” I lean my head against the headrest. “I don’t even remember the last time I traveled for fun.”
“I need to see new places like I need to breathe,” Giac says. “I don’t like the idea that there are corners of the earth I’ll never see. I want to know it all.”
It’s the exact type of comment that reminds me of our subtle but not insignificant age difference.
The idea of seeing everything the world has to offer, while once maybe an intriguing idea, now makes me tired.
“If you come to LA, you can skip the Walk of Fame in Hollywood. Now that it’s not part of my district, I can be honest and say that it’s a piss-covered money pit with a mediocre mall. ”
Giac shakes his head. “If you skip the less pleasant parts, you’ll never appreciate the good.” He points out the window. “See that?”
I look. There’s perfectly pleasant countryside somewhere out there, but all I see is the wall that separates it from the highway and the thick early-morning fog. “Concrete? Yes.”
“And it’ll last forever. Hundreds of kilometers of nothing special.”
I look back at the drab sight. “You’re a great road trip buddy.”
He continues, “But once we see Lake Como, after hours of nothing but road and concrete and dirt, it’ll be even more magnificent in comparison.
” I remember when I had Giac’s optimism, his zest for life.
I remember the first time I stepped foot in the Capitol as an elected representative: There was never a more beautiful sight in the world.
How quickly those two years went by, how quickly that building became a monument for my failure.
I never want anywhere in Italy to feel like that.
Even the concrete highway is a serene tropical paradise in comparison.
He offers me control of the music and I put on an old Joni Mitchell album.
The folksy soundwaves that are distilled into the echoes of the twisty canyon roads I call home trigger a deep sense of longing that’s been ebbing and flowing as of late, and I fold my knees into my chest. I never much liked being a kid; it felt stunting, and the impermanence of it all always made me anxious, but right now, I want to be seven again.
I want to be in the back seat of my dad’s old Volvo, the windows rolled down on the way home from a long day at the beach, with salt and sand stuck to my skin.
I want to pluck an aloe leaf from our blooming garden and rub it over my sunburn while my mother sways to the music, stirring a fresh pot of homemade jam on the stove, eventually getting so caught up in her movement that the bottom of the pan burns.
I want to watch a sunset nestled between the two of them, a cool shiver reaching down my spine as the light disappears behind the mountains, signaling that it’s time for bed, another perfect day done.
We arrive in Bellagio, a town located at the tip of a peninsula smack dab in the center of Lake Como, around lunchtime, and I’m nearly knocked down by the breathtaking views.
The crystal-clear blue waters reflect the snowcapped Alpine mountains that surround it.
It’s quintessential Italy with multicolored villas lining the narrow streets.
We stop at a viewpoint and stare at the lake ahead.
“Damn,” is the only word that comes to mind.
Giac laughs, leaning back as he grips the guardrail standing between us and the water below. His arms flex. “Worth the long trip?”
I feel calm for the first time all day, the first time in. . . I don’t even know how long. Giac makes me feel so at ease, like he’s put my nerves on ice. “Definitely.”
We decide to grab a bite to eat at one of the many small restaurants that line the crowded streets of Bellagio before we meet up with Sutton, who will escort us across the lake to the Farentinos’ home.
I lower my sunglasses onto my face as we find a quiet, inconspicuous table tucked into the corner of the outdoor deck.
I order a Margherita pizza and, based on Giac’s recommendation, a Campari Spritz.
It’s bitter and tart—but refreshing after the long drive.
We sit in a comfortable silence as we eat.
He’s not freaked out by long pauses in conversation, and I like that about him.
We take a ferry across the lake to the small village of Tremezzo, then follow a path down the coast. Both Sutton and Benito described the Lake Como house as a home, but it’s not a home, it’s a palace.
Giant, grand, a massive all-white estate sitting right at the lake’s edge.
While their La Musa house is fit for a nobleman, this is more suited for a king. Giac is in heaven.
“This looks to be in the style of Swiss architect Simone Cantoni,” Giac says, admiring the elaborate painting on the foyer’s domed ceiling.
Raffaello steps into the room to greet us, grinning smugly. “That’s because it is Simone Cantoni.” He gestures for us to follow him outside. Giac looks to me with his mouth agape and lets out a breathless squeal.
The backyard, which feels too basic a word for it, is even more grand: a giant terrace overlooking the water, what must be at least an acre of gardens, and a sparkling swimming pool. “Whoa,” is all I can say.
“It’s not bad.” Raffaello winks at me. “We’re having a dinner party tonight, and you’ll both come, of course. Drinks are at five. Natalia will show you to your room.”
“We do not need to bother Natalia.” Benito steps out onto the terrace.
He’s wearing athletic shorts, which I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in, and a T-shirt.
It’s weird to see him in this casual of a setting.
If it weren’t for the scowl on his face, I’d say he looks comfortable, relaxed. “I will show them to their rooms.”
He leads us to the east wing of the giant property to a set of rooms across from one another. Giac yawns. “I am quite tired after the trip. I think I will take a nap if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” I wave to him as he closes the door to his room behind him.
I nod my head toward my room, motioning for Benito to follow me.
I shut the door once we’re inside. The room is all blue with white crown molding and a large king-sized bed in the center.
He puts his hands in his pockets and waits for me to speak.
“Sorry if me being here is weird. Sorry if coming here with Giac is weird. Sutton insisted and it all kind of spiraled out of control—”
Benito raises his hand and I stop talking. “Izzy, it’s fine. I’m glad you’re here.”
My chest warms. “You are?”
“Yes,” he says quickly, lifting his eyes to meet mine and flashing a quick smile. “I’m sure you and Giac will have a lovely weekend.” His eyes fall back to the floor.
I shift from one foot to another. “Giac and I are just friends. You know that, right?” It’s not my place to out Giac to Benito, but I shouldn’t need to.
He nods, but the expression on his face remains glum. “Natalia will bring fresh towels.” He walks toward the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”