19. Claire
CLAIRE
Tessa calls and says, “Sign it.”
“I already did.”
Tessa gives me a beat of silence.
“Then why am I calling you?”
“Emotional support.”
“You signed before I told you to?”
“The final contract has been sitting in my inbox for two days. I read it twice.”
“Only twice?”
“Do not encourage him.”
Tessa laughs.
I am at the kitchen table in Casa Ginestra with my laptop open, one sandal under the chair, the other somewhere I stopped caring about, and a cup of coffee beside me that has already gone half cold.
The Japan contract is on the screen, signed.
Three weeks.
Osaka first. Kyoto after. Markets, family restaurants, small manufacturers, early-morning vendors, two train days I already dislike, and one hotel change that still appears to have been designed by somebody who hates luggage.
The assignment begins five days after I leave Ginestra.
My flight is two days before the first shoot.
I know all of that.
It feels different now that my name is at the bottom.
“Okay,” Tessa says. “Officially official.”
“Terrible phrase.”
“I’m your editor, not your poet.”
“You should put that on your email signature.”
“I might.”
Paper moves on her end.
“The local producer confirmed Osaka. The Kyoto fixer is still waiting on one vendor. You’ll get final call sheets closer to departure.”
“Fine.”
“And the Nakamura profile moved to day three.”
I scroll.
“Kei Nakamura?”
“Yes. Chef. Terrible media training. Apparently excellent face.”
“Those are useful editorial notes.”
“I thought so.”
“You wrote camera friendly in the brief.”
“He is.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I hear typing.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Yes. Congratulations.”
That quiets me.
Tessa has assigned me work for four years. She is not sentimental about it.
“Thanks.”
“You wanted more international editorial this year.”
“I did.”
“And now you have it.”
I look at the contract again.
“I know.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
The answer is easy.
That helps.
“Good. Go be annoying in another country.”
“I plan to.”
“And Claire?”
“What?”
“Tell the man.”
I lean back.
“I was going to.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
“Without waiting until he notices a suitcase?”
“I do not own a suitcase subtle enough for that.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I’m telling him today.”
“Look at you. Growth.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Send me the equipment list by five.”
“Goodbye, Tessa.”
I close the call.
For six seconds, I consider sending Matteo a message.
Japan is confirmed.
Too flat.
Signed the contract.
Too much like a bank notification.
I have officially chosen airports over you.
Absolutely not.
I lock the phone and take it with me instead.
Matteo is home. The terrace doors are open, and from the path I can see one bare foot beneath the table.
Apparently one bare foot is enough to locate Matteo Bellandi now.
I knock anyway.
Two taps, pause, one.
“Come in.”
He is working at the long table near the open doors, laptop open, black coffee beside an untouched glass of water, papers squared at one corner.
My paperback is face down beside his elbow.
I point at it.
“You lost your own reading material?”
“You left it here.”
“That is becoming your defense for everything.”
“It is frequently true.”
I walk in.
Matteo closes the laptop.
“I signed Japan.”
He does not hesitate.
“Good.”
He does not ask whether I am sure.
I stand there holding my phone like I came over to deliver a medical result and have instead announced that the grocery store has peaches.
Matteo waits.
I sit across from him.
“That’s it?”
“You signed because you want to go.”
“Yes.”
“Then good.”
Relief arrives fast enough to annoy me.
I put my phone on the table.
“It’s three weeks.”
“I remember.”
“Osaka and Kyoto.”
“When do you leave?”
“Two days before the first shoot. Five days after Ginestra ends.”
He nods.
“How much of Osaka?”
“About ten days if nothing changes.”
“And Kyoto after.”
“Yes.”
“What are you most excited to shoot?”
I blink.
Matteo reaches for his water.
“What?”
“That was not the question I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
I do not answer.
He waits without chasing the question.
I turn toward the open doors.
“A morning market outside Osaka.”
“What about it?”
“Three sisters run one fish stall. Their father had it before them. Tessa sent old photographs from when they were teenagers.”
“You want the hands.”
I face him again.
“Maybe.”
“You always photograph hands.”
“I photograph useful hands.”
“That sounds discriminatory.”
“It is.”
His mouth lifts.
“There’s also a tiny knife workshop. Fifth generation. The youngest son wants to make kitchen knives instead of ceremonial ones, and his grandfather thinks this is cultural collapse.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“You are not a fifth-generation knife maker.”
“No. But I understand objects having correct uses.”
“Dishwasher bowls.”
“Exactly.”
I laugh.
Matteo takes his coffee.
“What are you already dreading?”
I answer too quickly.
“The hotel change on day six.”
“Not the flights?”
“I can sleep on planes.”
“You say that about cars too.”
“I sleep beautifully in cars.”
“You apologized to a window.”
“Once.”
“And drooled.”
My mouth opens.
“You said you didn’t know.”
“I did not say that.”
“You omitted information.”
“I chose not to humiliate you.”
“That is suspiciously kind.”
“It was self-preservation.”
“Inspector.”
“Do not.”
I am still smiling when I remember what he asked.
“What I’m dreading,” I say. “The hotel change. Carrying gear on the train. Also a six-fifteen call time after a late arrival.”
“You will hate that.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll do it anyway.”
“Yes.”
He says it like a fact about me.
I hate how much I like hearing it.
Matteo picks up the paperback and moves it before my hand can knock it off the table.
“You’re frowning.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That explains the danger.”
“Very funny.”
“What about?”
I study him.
“You’re making this difficult.”
His eyebrows pull together.
“Japan?”
“No.”
“What?”
“You.”
“That is not useful.”
“I know.”
He waits.
I hate that too.
“If you had asked me to stay, I had material.”
“Material.”
“A speech.”
“I see.”
“I could have told you I’m not giving up work for a man I met this summer. I could have become furious. Possibly eloquent.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You should be.”
“I can ask you to stay if it improves the morning.”
I throw the nearest object at him.
Unfortunately, the nearest object is my phone, so I stop halfway through the motion.
Matteo watches.
“Good judgment.”
“Do not sound proud.”
“I am relieved.”
I set the phone safely out of throwing range.
“You didn’t even ask if I considered turning it down.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then why would I?”
Reasonable again. Annoying.
I trace the edge of the phone case once.
“What if I had?”
“I would have asked why.”
“And then?”
“Depends on the answer.”
“What if the answer was you?”
There is a tiny pause before he answers.
I catch it.
“Then I would tell you not to make that decision for me.”
I reach for a joke.
Nothing comes.
Matteo drops his eyes to his coffee.
“I want you here,” he says. “I don’t want you turning down work you want because of me.”
He seems to realize what he said only after it is out.
His hand tightens around the cup once.
“Okay,” I say.
A scooter passes on the road above us. Somewhere at Casa Bellamare, Luca calls somebody’s name with the tone of a man discovering food has been mishandled.
I pick up my phone again.
“Do you want to see the brief?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
I move my chair around the table instead of handing him the phone.
His knee touches mine.
I open the assignment deck.
“Do not become a producer.”
“I know my role.”
“You say that now.”
“I asked what you’re excited to shoot. That is not production.”
“Excellent defense.”
I swipe through the pages.
Market. Workshop. Family restaurant. A small inn that has served the same breakfast for sixty years. A ceramic studio. A portrait component.
Then Kei Nakamura appears.
Tessa has used a press photograph.
He is thirty-something, Japanese, standing in a restaurant kitchen with his sleeves rolled up and a face that explains her camera-friendly note.
Matteo stops me with one finger against the edge of the phone.
“Who is that?”
I turn my head very slowly.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I asked a question.”
“The chef.”
“The media-trained one.”
“Terribly media-trained. Excellent face.”
“That was Tessa’s assessment?”
“Yes.”
“I dislike Tessa’s assessment.”
I start laughing.
Matteo does not.
“Oh my God.”
“I am aware this is irrational.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Yes.”
The immediate answer catches me mid-laugh.
He keeps looking at the phone.
“He is a man I have not met. You are photographing him because it is your job. I know that.”
“But?”
“I still dislike his face.”
I laugh so hard I have to put the phone down.
Matteo looks genuinely offended.
“This is an honest disclosure.”
“It is an excellent disclosure.”
“I regret it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I am beginning to.”
I lean closer and kiss the corner of his mouth.
“For the record, I intend to photograph him.”
“I assumed.”
“I may even make him look very good.”
“I know.”
“And if he has useful hands, those are going in too.”
Matteo turns his head toward me.
I smile.
“What reassurance are you offering?”
“That I am going to Japan to work.”
“That is not about me.”
“Correct.”
He gives in and smiles.
“Good.”
I kiss him again.
The kiss lasts longer.
Matteo’s hand slides to my waist, warm through my shirt, and stays there. The kiss does not have to become anything else.
Mostly.
I pull back before mostly becomes a lie.
“The time difference is seven hours,” he says.
I look at him.
“You calculated.”
“I already knew.”
“Of course you did.”
“If you finish a late shoot at nine, it is two in the afternoon here.”
“That one is easy.”
“For you.”
“If I call after dinner, it is three in the morning for you.”
“You are not calling me at three in the morning.”
“I know how clocks work.”
“Inspector confidence.”
“I have clocks.”
“Arrogant.”
His mouth twitches.
I grin.
“What if you’re in Milan?”
“I will be during your first week.”
That catches me.
“For how long?”
“Four days. Opening.”
“And after?”
“Bellamare, probably. Rome for one night later in the month.”
I look at the assignment calendar.
His calendar is moving too.
There will be days when neither of us is here.
Days when his first coffee happens in a hotel room in Milan and mine happens after lunch because Japan has broken my internal clock.
I tap the screen.
“So who calls whom?”
“Whoever is awake.”
“That is not a plan.”
“Exactly.”
I give him a long look.
“You are pleased with yourself.”
“A little.”
“Terrible.”
“Accurate.”
“You are destroying the romance.”
“You asked who calls.”
“I regret asking.”
“That seems wise.”
I kiss him so I do not have to answer.
Later, back at Ginestra, I edit while Matteo reads on the sofa with one ankle resting over the opposite knee.
He brought the paperback because apparently it has migrated permanently into his life.
My assignment brief is still open in another tab.
Every so often the signed contract flashes on-screen when I switch windows.
Matteo is still on my sofa when it does.
If Matteo had pushed, I could have pushed back.
If he had treated three weeks away like betrayal, I would know exactly what to do.
Instead he asked about fish markets and hotel changes, mocked my ability to sleep in cars, and admitted jealousy.
He kept Japan mine.
I adjust the crop on a photograph three times and restore the first version.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“You’ve moved that line four pixels in both directions.”
I glance over.
Matteo is still reading.
“How do you know?”
“You sigh differently when you are actually editing.”
I watch him.
He turns a page.
“You were watching me edit.”
“I was reading.”
I leave the crop alone.
By ten, he stands and finds his shoes.
I walk him to the gate.
“Tomorrow?” I ask.
“Coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Six thirty?”
“That is offensive.”
“You came at six twelve last time.”
“I was temporarily unwell.”
“Six thirty.”
“Fine.”
He opens the gate.
He looks back.
“Tell me the dates when you know them.”
My eyes move from him to the assignment still open on my laptop through the kitchen door.
“Okay.”
The word comes out before I can inspect it.