6. Matteo
MATTEO
I drink my first coffee alone because conversation before seven in the morning is a design failure.
Bellamare is quiet enough that I can hear the irrigation line clicking somewhere below the lemon terraces.
The kitchen in Casa Bellamare will wake soon.
Luca will appear first and object to whatever breakfast someone else has planned.
Sebastian will eventually make noise for no useful reason.
Nico will tell him to stop. Adrian may or may not be visible before noon.
For ten minutes, none of that belongs to me.
I sit on the terrace outside my house with black coffee, my phone facedown, and the day arranged in my head before I open the calendar.
Milan at nine. Legal at ten thirty. Two approvals before lunch. A call with the regional team after that.
Nothing difficult.
Then I remember Claire saying I would forget half her list by dinner.
I remember all ten.
I remember information. That has been useful in almost every part of my life, long before Claire Bennett arrived next door with camera bags and an opinion about the emotional failures of competent men.
I finish my coffee.
I do not think about item three.
At eleven twenty-six, I find her in the kitchen at Casa Bellamare staring into the espresso machine as if it has personally disappointed her.
Her camera is on the table beside a plate with half a peach on it. One sandal is under the chair. The other is several feet away near the open doors to the terrace.
I look at the machine.
“What did you do to it?”
Claire turns. Her hair is tied up badly, which I am beginning to understand is a normal condition rather than an emergency.
“Interesting accusation from a man who owns hotels.”
“I do not own this machine.”
“You own part of the house containing the machine.”
“That is not how responsibility works.”
“It is how complaints work.”
The machine flashes an empty-water warning.
I lift the reservoir, fill it, and put it back.
Claire folds her arms. “I was about to do that.”
“You were staring at it.”
“I was building trust.”
“With the appliance.”
“We have history now.”
I press the button for a double espresso.
She watches me place a small glass of water beside the cup before I slide both toward her.
Her eyes go to the coffee, then to me.
“You didn’t ask.”
“You ordered a double yesterday.”
“That could have been jet lag.”
“You also said one was safe and two became a personality decision.”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
I glance at the clock above the kitchen door. “And it is before noon.”
She follows my look.
When she turns back, one eyebrow has lifted.
“You remembered that too.”
“You said caffeine after noon keeps you awake.”
“I said I get to know the ceiling personally at two in the morning.”
“Yes.”
“That is annoyingly exact.”
“It was an exact sentence.”
She picks up the espresso.
I wait for the joke. She takes a sip, looks at the cup, then at me again.
“This is exactly what I ordered yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“Double espresso, water, no attempt to save me from myself.”
“You changed your order from cappuccino before you sat down.”
She stares at me. “You remember the abandoned order too?”
“You said exact memory was annoying. I am trying to be consistent.”
“That was terrible.”
“It was accurate.”
“That does not improve it.”
She takes another sip anyway. There is a faint line of dust along one knee and a red mark where the camera strap has pressed against the side of her neck. She has been out for hours.
I push the plate with the remaining peach closer to her.
She looks at it, then at me. “Is this also observation?”
“You ate half.”
“I was interrupted by a hostile machine.”
“You were losing an argument with a water reservoir.”
“I was gathering information.”
“By staring.”
“Your method is very judgmental.”
She takes the peach.
I ask where she has been shooting.
“Down near the market, then along a side road above Minori. I found a bakery where three generations of the same family apparently argue about the front display every morning.”
“You asked permission.”
She gives me a look. “I do know how to do my job.”
“I did not say you didn’t.”
“You thought it in a very organized tone.”
“I was going to ask whether they return to the same argument.”
That catches her. She smiles around the peach. “Every morning, according to the grandmother.”
“Useful.”
“See, that is why I don’t tell you things. You’ll turn them into data.”
“You keep telling me things.”
The smile stays for one second longer than the joke requires.
Then she looks at the espresso.
“Do you remember everyone’s coffee?”
“If they tell me once.”
“That answer is either impressive or deeply irritating.”
“It can be both.”
“There he is.”
“Who?”
“The man who corrects the category before accepting the compliment.”
I lean one hip against the counter. “You had not complimented me.”
“I was considering it.”
“Take your time.”
She laughs into the espresso.
I was prepared for the argument. Her laugh makes me forget what I was about to say.
Claire sets the cup down. “Observation, right?”
“What?”
“You’re going to say this is just observation.”
“It is observation.”
“Of course it is.”
She reaches for the peach, then points the slice at me. “Still. Thank you.”
I nod once.
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t make that look mean something.”
“I have no idea what look you mean.”
“That is becoming one of your least convincing lies.”
I almost tell her I do not lie about useful information.
Instead I let her drink her coffee.
I leave the kitchen still hearing her laugh.
Back at my house, I open Notes before I open the Milan file.
I stare at the blank screen for several seconds.
Claire called the list ridiculous before she admitted it mattered. She also told me I could not survive three items without creating categories, color coding, and a timeline.
There will be no color coding.
I type a title.
C.B. / Impossible Ten
The wording makes me smile despite myself.
Then I type the ten items exactly as she gave them to me.
Remember something small without being reminded.
Plan something because it would make me happy, not because he wants credit.
Dance with me when nobody is watching.
I continue through all ten, correcting one word in item eight because she said “against me,” not “for me,” and leaving item ten exactly as she clarified it yesterday. Stay when I give him every reason to leave. If she actually asks him to leave, he leaves.
Below the list, I add three lines.
3: nobody watching is not the same as alone.
8: do not turn support into control.
10: bad day is not a test. Leave means leave.
I read the note once.
I keep checklists, vendor notes, staff preferences, recurring repairs. Important details go somewhere searchable.
Claire told me something specific. I intend to remember it correctly.
The fact that she thinks I cannot makes the exercise mildly entertaining.
My phone rings.
Milan.
I answer.
The opening team has resolved yesterday’s refrigeration problem, but the replacement vendor sent revised delivery times that interfere with kitchen testing. The regional director starts explaining three possible workarounds.
“Which one protects opening service?” I ask.
“The second.”
“Which one creates a problem tomorrow?”
The regional director hesitates. “The first.”
“Then why are we discussing the first?”
This time he answers faster.
“We aren’t.”
“Good.”
I ask who owns the delivery confirmation, who signs off on the temporary unit, and when the final check happens. Three names answer three questions.
Before we end, I tell the regional director to send the update to Elena instead of copying me on every vendor message.
“If she owns the opening, let her own it,” I say.
“Understood.”
I hang up and leave it with her.
I open C.B. / Impossible Ten once more and put a single check beside item one.
The mark looks absurdly formal for remembering an espresso order. I leave it anyway.
Then I close the note, put the phone beside my laptop, and get back to work.
Later that afternoon, I find a black lens cap beside the rosemary planter near the terrace wall.
I know it is Claire’s because there is a narrow strip of white tape on the inside edge with a tiny handwritten C. I also know she will notice it is missing approximately three minutes after she needs it.
I could leave it on the terrace.
I pick it up.
Casa Ginestra is quiet when I reach the boundary path. Her music is playing through an open window, something with a low piano line and a woman singing in Italian badly enough that I suspect Claire is singing over it.
I knock on the open gate instead of walking in.
The music stops.
Claire appears at the doorway with a camera battery in one hand and a pencil tucked behind her ear.
“What did I do now?”
I hold up the lens cap.
She looks at it.
Then at the camera hanging from the chair behind her.
“Oh.”
“You were missing something.”
“I was not missing it yet.”
“That is not the defense you think it is.”
She comes down the two steps and takes it from me.
Her fingers brush mine for less than a second.
I notice anyway.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome.”
She turns the cap over and sees the tape.
“Where was it?”
“Rosemary planter.”
“That bush is aggressive.”
“It did not remove the cap from your camera.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I have seen the bush.”
She smiles, then looks annoyed with herself for it.
“Don’t get too excited. Returning lost equipment is not on the list.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“You seem disappointed.”
“I am protecting you from premature confidence.”
“Thoughtful.”
“I contain multitudes.”
She puts the cap on the camera, checks it once, then looks at me again.
“Do you want water?” she asks.
It is the first time she has invited me through the gate, only as far as the small terrace where two chairs sit around a table covered in contact sheets, pencils, a notebook, and an empty coffee cup from this morning.
I should say no. There is still work waiting at my house.
“Yes.”
Claire steps aside.
The terrace is untidy in the ways I expected. Camera cards are in one neat case. Batteries are lined beside the wall outlet. Paper, cups, sandals, and the things that are not expensive enough to require discipline make up the rest.
She hands me a glass of water and sits across from me.
“No coffee?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow immediately.
“It’s after noon.”
“Yes.”
“You did that on purpose.”
“Did what?”
“Asked about coffee so I would notice you remembered twice.”
“I asked a question.”
“That is exactly the kind of technical defense I expected from you.”
I take a drink of water.
She points at me with the pencil she has removed from behind her ear. “This is not a point.”
“I did not say it was.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“You have become very confident in your ability to identify my thoughts.”
“You are not subtle when you are pleased with yourself.”
“I am often subtle.”
“Not now.”
I raise the glass again.
She starts laughing before I say anything else.
Claire shows me three photographs from the morning because I ask what she was working on. One is an old woman pinning a tablecloth outside a house. One is a man repairing a chair with blue string. The third is only two coffee cups on a windowsill, one chipped, one new.
I ask why she kept the third.
She says, “I don’t know yet.”
Usually, “I don’t know” gets a follow-up question from me. I let this one sit.
She reaches for a stack of contact sheets weighted beneath a small book and slides them toward me. The pencil marks are circles, crosses, tiny numbers, and two frames boxed twice.
“You have a system,” I say.
Her eyes lift. “Careful.”
“You do.”
“This is editing.”
“That appears to be a category.”
“Do not enjoy this.”
I turn one page. A hand leaving coins beside a coffee cup. A faded towel on a balcony rail. An older couple carrying folding chairs toward shade.
“You’re trying to figure out why I kept them,” Claire says.
“That seems more useful than choosing the prettiest.”
“There’s the romance.”
“I have not claimed romance.”
“Good. I would hate for you to peak on day five.”
I turn another page before she can read my face.
A frame near the bottom catches my attention. It is the same bakery she mentioned earlier, but the people are blurred by movement while an old wooden stool remains sharp near the doorway. Someone has repaired one leg with metal brackets that do not match.
“That one,” I say.
Claire leans closer to see where I am pointing. Her shoulder nearly touches mine.
“Why?”
“The stool.”
“The people are the point.”
“Then why is the stool in focus?”
Her pencil stops against the page.
She studies the photograph. “Because the grandmother told me her husband fixed it twenty-two years ago and refuses to let anyone replace it.”
“That seems relevant.”
“It might be.”
“You knew exactly why you kept it.”
“I knew one reason.”
“There are multiple?”
“Unfortunately.”
“That sounds inefficient.”
“It is art. We survive.”
I laugh once.
Claire’s pencil pauses above the page. She turns toward me, then makes a small mark beside the photograph.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You changed the page.”
“You are very difficult to have around work.”
“That was not an answer.”
She copies my tone precisely enough that I recognize it. “It was adjacent to one.”
I let the imitation go and sit there smiling like an idiot while she pretends not to notice.
My phone is still on my desk at home, C.B. / Impossible Ten with it.
When I finally stand, Claire walks me to the gate.
“Matteo.”
I look back.
She is holding the lens cap between two fingers.
“Thanks. For this. And the coffee.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her mouth curves.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
I do not bother denying it.