18. Matteo
MATTEO
The weather over Naples is harmless.
Everyone keeps telling me that.
It is also not useful.
At seven eighteen, a low cloud ceiling has delayed the inspection team flying in from Milan. Eight minutes later, the airport stops estimating.
I have three alternatives open on my laptop anyway.
Claire sits across from me on the terrace with her first coffee and a book she is pretending to read.
I know she is pretending because she has not turned the page in eight minutes.
“The airport is not going to respond to intimidation,” she says.
“I am not intimidating the airport.”
“You have the face.”
“What face?”
“The one you use when time has behaved irresponsibly.”
I close one route-planning tab.
There are still two.
The inspection is for a property outside Naples. It can happen at eleven, twelve, or tomorrow morning without affecting anything important. The team has hotel rooms. The contractor is available all day. No one is stranded.
I know all of this.
I also know the drive time from the airport under three different traffic conditions.
Claire lowers the book.
“You could go tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“I prefer today.”
“Why?”
“The contractor is already there.”
“He lives there.”
“He has blocked the morning.”
“He owns the company.”
“That does not make his time irrelevant.”
She fights a smile.
“Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to call me Inspector.”
“I was actually going with benevolent dictator.”
“That is worse.”
“More syllables. More value.”
My phone vibrates.
The airport has no update.
I put it facedown harder than necessary.
Claire watches my hand.
I dislike that she notices things I would prefer to make insignificant.
“Matteo.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You are going to.”
“I am.”
I wait.
She closes the book around one finger.
“Why does waiting make you this crazy?”
“It does not.”
She looks at the two remaining route tabs on my screen.
I close another.
“One tab,” I say.
“Very healthy.”
“It is a flight delay.”
“Yes.”
“Those happen.”
“I am aware.”
“So why are you planning like the plane has personally failed a moral test?”
I lean back.
Claire drinks her coffee.
She does not fill the silence for me.
That is becoming one of the more dangerous things she does.
“The inspection matters.”
“I believe you.”
“The contractor has a schedule.”
“I believe that too.”
I look toward the water.
The terrace is quiet except for the small scrape of Claire’s thumbnail against the paper cup. She has started peeling the edge of the sleeve.
“Why?” she asks again.
I almost tell her plans prevent wasted time.
“When I was seventeen, one of my family’s hotels hosted a wedding.”
Claire waits.
“It was not a large hotel. Maybe eighty rooms. Everyone had been there for three days and every person involved had an opinion about transport.”
“That sounds like hell.”
“It was poorly organized.”
“So yes.”
I ignore that.
“The ceremony was at a church outside town. Two coaches were supposed to take everyone there. At eleven that morning, I heard one of the desk managers ask whether the second coach had confirmed.”
Claire’s hand stops on the cup sleeve.
“It had not.”
“What time was the ceremony?”
“Four.”
“That seems survivable.”
“It was.”
I remember the front desk telephone. Beige. A cord stretched far enough that someone had wrapped black tape around it twice.
“I called the company. They had one coach on the booking.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“Called another company.”
“At seventeen?”
“My father was in a meeting with the groom’s family. My mother was dealing with flowers that had arrived at the wrong entrance. The manager was trying to find the original confirmation.”
“And you fixed the bus.”
“I found three vans and a smaller coach. It was not difficult.”
Claire’s eyebrows rise.
“It was calls.”
“How many?”
“Eleven.”
She laughs once.
I nearly smile.
“The guests left on time. Nobody knew there had been a problem.”
“Except you.”
“And the desk manager.”
“What happened after?”
I take my coffee, discover it is empty, and put it back down.
“Nothing dramatic.”
“I didn’t ask for dramatic.”
I should stop there.
Instead I remember the bride’s mother catching me near the elevators after midnight. She had spent the day thanking people. She put both hands around mine and said, Thank God you were here. Matteo takes care of things.
“I became the person people asked.”
“For buses?”
“For everything boring.”
“Room lists.”
“Yes.”
“Keys.”
“Yes.”
“Train times.”
“Transfers. Late arrivals. Which kitchen could still feed twelve people after service. Which driver would answer at two in the morning.”
Claire’s mouth softens, but she says nothing.
“It was useful.”
“You liked being useful.”
“Yes.”
“If I knew what could go wrong, I could usually stop it before anyone had to stand somewhere waiting for a person who forgot them.”
Claire looks down at the cup in her hands.
My hand almost goes back to the laptop. The plane will land or it will not. The contractor can move. Those are facts.
I do not reach for the laptop.
Claire asks, “And if you can’t stop it?”
“I dislike that.”
“That is not exactly a revelation.”
“I hate needing something I cannot guarantee.”
My voice stays level.
Claire’s eyes lift to mine.
“A plane.”
“Anything.”
I hear it after I say it.
Anything includes Claire’s departure date, Japan, and every day after Bellamare that I cannot schedule into certainty.
I know exactly how many mornings remain because the itinerary arrived two days ago and I did the calculation before I could stop myself.
I do not say any of that.
Claire puts the book on the table.
“My ex used to meet me at the airport.”
I do not move.
“For the first couple of years,” she says. “Even if the flight was late. Even if I told him not to. He’d be there with coffee or food or some terrible sign if he was feeling annoying.”
By now, I hear what comes next.
“One trip, I was coming back from Lisbon after ten days. I sent the flight number. Landing time. Everything.”
“He forgot.”
“No.” She rubs one thumb across the crease in the book cover. “He remembered I was coming home.”
That is somehow worse.
“He texted me that the door was open because he was already in bed.”
I say nothing.
“I got a taxi. Came home. There was my favorite takeout in the refrigerator.”
“He remembered what you liked.”
“Old information.”
Claire’s gaze stays on the book.
“The next morning he asked whether I’d slept okay. He never asked what I shot. I had spent ten days on the biggest assignment I’d had that year.”
My jaw tightens.
She notices and points at me.
“Do not get angry at a man you have never met.”
“I can manage it privately.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is efficient.”
Her mouth twitches.
“I don’t need somebody waiting at baggage claim every time I land. I liked it. But that wasn’t the thing.”
“What was?”
“That he used to be curious.”
I know.
She looks toward the open terrace doors.
“It took me a long time to notice when he stopped.”
I reach across the table and stop before touching her hand.
Claire looks down at mine.
She turns her palm over.
I take it.
For a while, neither of us says anything.
My phone vibrates once.
I ignore it.
Claire’s fingers move against mine.
“Was that painful?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even check.”
“I know.”
“Should I call a doctor?”
“No.”
She smiles.
I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss the center of her palm.
Her smile disappears.
Her fingers curl once.
“Matteo.”
“Yes.”
“I want something.”
I wait.
She stands and comes around the table.
The chair legs scrape stone behind her.
“What?”
She stops between my knees.
“You.”
“That is not specific.”
“I know.”
Her hands settle on my shoulders.
“I want you to decide for a while.”
Everything else drops out.
“Decide what?”
She exhales through her nose, almost laughing.
“Inspector.”
“Claire.”
“I want to stop thinking.”
“That is different.”
“I know.”
I put my hands around her hips but do not pull her closer.
“Tell me what you mean.”
She studies my face.
“I want you to take control. For a while. I want to know what it feels like when I give it to you instead of you taking it because you think you know better.”
My hands tighten once at her hips.
“If you want something different, including stop?”
“I’ll tell you.”
Her eyes hold mine.
Claire’s thumb brushes the side of my neck.
“And if you don’t?”
“Then let me lead.”
She inhales.
“Yes.”
I stand.
She steps back.
“Bedroom,” I say.
Claire’s mouth curves.
“That was fast.”
“Do you want me to reconsider?”
“No.”
“Then move.”
She does.
The bedroom is dim because the shutters are half closed against the heat. My shirt is still on the chair from yesterday. Claire’s hair tie is on the nightstand.
She gets two steps inside before turning toward me.
I point at the foot of the bed.
“Stay there.”
She stops.
The smile is gone now, but she does not look away.
I walk to her slowly.
“Still what you want?”
“Yes.”
I kiss her once.
I step back.
“Take off the shirt.”
She does.
It is mine, which becomes briefly inconvenient.
She drops it onto the chair and reaches for the waistband of her shorts.
“Not yet.”
Her hands stop.
She gives me a look that would normally become an argument.
I wait.
Claire lets her hands fall.
“Fine.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“Do you want this?”
“Yes.”
I kiss her again, harder this time.
Her hands come up.
I catch both wrists gently and hold them between us.
Claire goes still.
“Here?” I ask.
Her breathing changes.
“Yes.”
I move her hands above her head and press them lightly against the wall.
“Keep them there.”
She does.
I kiss her throat.
Her shoulder.
The place below her ear that makes her head turn even when she is trying not to move.
I take my time.
Claire is terrible at waiting.
I have known this for weeks.
By the time I reach the clasp of her bra, she is breathing through her mouth.
“Matteo.”
“Yes?”
“You are enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
“That seems unethical.”
“You invited it.”
“I can still complain.”
“I assumed you would.”
I unfasten the bra and let it fall.
Her hands stay above her head.
I touch her slowly, watching her face instead of my hands.
When her eyes close, I stop.
They open.
“That is hostile.”
“Look at me.”
She does.
I slide one hand down her stomach.
Her hips shift.
“Stay.”
She swears at me.
I smile against her mouth.
“Slower?”
“No.”
I move lower.
Her knees soften.
I catch her at the waist before she can lose balance.
“Bed.”
This time she does not make a joke.
She lies back, still watching me.
I remove the rest of her clothes, then mine.
When I come over her, Claire reaches for me.
I catch one wrist.
“Where?”
She blinks.
“What?”
“Where do you want your hands?”
A slow smile appears.
“Above my head.”
I put both there.
“Keep them.”
“Yes.”
She says it more quietly now.
I kiss down her body until she forgets to stay quiet.
Her hands move once.
I stop.
Claire makes a frustrated sound.
“You moved.”
“I hate you.”
“No.”
“Currently.”
“Hands.”
She puts them back.
I continue.
She is laughing and swearing by the time I finally give her what she wants. The laughter disappears when I slow down again.
“Do not.”
“Do not what?”
“Make me ask.”
“You asked me to decide.”
Her eyes narrow.
I wait.
“Faster.”
I give her faster.
When she says my name, my own control starts to go.
I reach for the condom in the nightstand.
Claire catches my arm.
“Still deciding?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I put it on.
I come back over her and hold her gaze.
“Claire.”
“I’ll tell you.”
I kiss her.
I take her wrists again and enter her slowly.
Her head tips back.
I stop halfway.
Her eyes open.
“Matteo.”
“What?”
“Keep going.”
She lifts her hips before I can answer.
I move.
Claire meets every movement. She tells me faster once and slower once. When I change the angle, she says yes before I ask. When her hands come down from above her head, she puts them on my shoulders and pulls me closer.
I let her.
She comes hard enough that every clever sentence disappears.
I follow a few seconds later.
For several minutes afterward, we stay where we landed.
Claire lies half across me with one leg trapped in the sheet.
My hand is on her back.
Her hair is in my mouth.
I move it.
She says, “You survived.”
“Barely.”
“Very reassuring.”
“You were difficult.”
“I followed instructions.”
“Selectively.”
“That is still following.”
I laugh.
She props her chin on my chest.
“You liked that.”
“Yes.”
“So did I.”
“I noticed.”
“Of course you did.”
She puts her head down again.
The room is hot. Somewhere outside, a door closes. My phone is still on the terrace, possibly containing an update about Naples that has survived without me for more than an hour.
Claire traces one finger along my ribs.
I almost say it.
The words are there before I can stop them.
I love you.
I kiss her hair instead.
Then I say, “I like you here.”
Claire is quiet.
She shifts higher on my chest.
“In your bed?”
“In my house.”
“That is dangerously close to sentiment.”
“I can revise.”
“Don’t.”
Her fingers curl lightly against my side.
A few minutes later, she says, “I’m staying.”
I do not ask whether she means until morning.
At some point I get up for water.
The inspection team landed at nine forty-eight. The contractor moved lunch. Nothing failed.
I put the phone back down and return to bed.
Claire has stolen my pillow.
I take the other one.
At six eleven the next morning, I wake before the alarm.
For a few seconds, I stay still.
Claire is asleep on her stomach, one knee bent, hair across half the pillow. My shirt is on the floor. Her book is on the chair where she left it.
My first coffee is usually alone.
I reach toward the nightstand and turn off the alarm before it can wake her.
I put my hand back on Claire’s waist and stay where I am.