26. Matteo
MATTEO
I make one coffee. I stand beside the machine longer than necessary.
Black for me. Nothing else. The second cup stays in the cabinet.
This is progress in the least useful category available.
I take mine to the terrace. Bellamare is awake in pieces.
Someone is moving chairs on the main terrace.
A delivery van reverses near the service entrance with an alarm that sounds too cheerful for this hour.
Luca is already arguing with a supplier in the kitchen loud enough that the supplier may not require a telephone.
Casa Ginestra is quiet. It has been quiet for four mornings.
I sit. Ten minutes. That rule existed before Claire.
Apparently it still does. At minute three, I look toward the boundary path.
At minute five, I dislike myself for doing it.
At minute seven, Luca appears carrying a plate.
He puts it beside me. Eggs. Bread. Something green that I do not inspect closely enough to identify.
“I ate.”
“No.”
“I had coffee.”
“That is a drink.”
“You sound like Claire.”
Luca stops. I regret the sentence immediately. He looks at the empty chair across from me. Then back at the plate.
“Eat.”
I take the fork. He stays standing.
“You have a kitchen.”
“I know.”
“And several people in it.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To annoy you.”
“That is Sebastian’s department.”
“He is sleeping.”
“Good.”
Luca folds his arms. I eat two bites because this is easier than discussing why he is here. He watches me take the third.
“Excellent,” I say. “You have successfully supervised breakfast.”
“I am not supervising.”
“You are counting.”
“I am absolutely counting.”
I put the fork down. Luca picks it up and puts it back in my hand. I stare at him. He says, “Do not make me involve Nico.”
“That threat has no meaning.”
“It does before seven.”
I eat. That satisfies him enough to sit. We eat without talking for a while. Luca is good at silence when he chooses to be. People forget that because he usually prefers not to. At six forty-eight, Sebastian comes through the open doors wearing sunglasses. The sun is barely above the wall.
“You are ridiculous,” I tell him.
“I am delicate.”
“You are hungover.”
“I had two glasses of wine.”
“You had five.”
“That is a hostile interpretation of arithmetic.”
He takes the chair beside Luca and reaches for my bread. Luca slaps his hand away.
“Not his.”
Sebastian looks at me. I look at him. He starts to smile. Then he does not. That is worse.
“I can go,” he says.
“Please.”
“See? He’s fine.”
Luca says, “Sebastian.”
“I am leaving.”
He gets up. At the terrace door he turns back.
“If you need me, I will be somewhere less emotionally constipated.”
“Then you will have to leave the estate.”
He points at me.
“There. That was almost human.”
He disappears inside. Luca takes my plate when I finish.
“You could go to Ravello.”
“No.”
“I did not say after Claire.”
“You were about to.”
He considers denying it and apparently decides not to insult either of us.
“She asked me not to come after her.”
“I know.”
“So I am not going.”
Luca nods once. He does not tell me this is noble. It is not. She said, Do not come after me. I can think of six ways around that before I finish the thought. Send food. Ask Elena whether Claire has been at the gallery. Have a driver available without telling Claire who arranged it.
Ask one of the staff whether the lights at Ginestra have come on. Let Sebastian discover something accidentally. Sebastian can discover almost anything if given fifteen minutes and no ethical supervision. I do none of it. At eight ten, Nico finds me in the study and closes the door behind him.
“No.”
“I have not spoken.”
“You have the expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one that means you have solved a problem nobody asked you to solve.”
He sits across from my desk.
“You could have somebody keep an eye on her.”
“No.”
“Not interfere.”
“No.”
“Just make sure she is all right.”
“She asked me for space.”
“That does not mean you need to become stupid.”
“It means I do not get to keep tabs on her and call it respect.”
Nico’s mouth tightens. If Claire has a practical problem, if the rental goes wrong, if a car fails, if she needs equipment moved, Bellamare could make it easier before she finishes asking. That is exactly why I cannot arrange any of it unless she asks.
“She is thirty-three,” I say. “She has traveled alone for years.”
“I know.”
“She does not need us tracking her.”
“I said nothing about tracking.”
“You said keep an eye on her.”
“That is an expression.”
“An inaccurate one.”
Nico leans back.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“You are still impossible.”
“So are you.”
He stands.
“Fine.”
He leaves. I put the pen down. My hand aches from holding it too tightly.
At nine, I open my phone.
Notes.
C.B. / Impossible Ten.
The title is still where it has been for weeks. I open it. I do not read from the top. My eyes land near the bottom.
Photo at the table. She kept Luca and Nico in the frame.
Below that: bad day is not a test. Leave means leave.
I read the second line once. Then I press delete.
My phone asks whether I am sure. Of course it does.
I press yes.
The note disappears.
I check Recently Deleted. There it is. Thirty days. I delete it from there too.
Less than twenty seconds. Claire does not know. I do not tell anyone.
I still remember that she takes a double espresso before noon with water beside it. I remember she hates tomato in sandwiches when she is working because it slides out and ruins shirts. I remember she will photograph hands before faces if the hands tell the better story.
I remember she sleeps on planes and apologizes to windows in cars. I remember she likes the second basil photograph. I remember eighteen other things that were never written anywhere.
Deleting the note changes none of that. I stare at the blank space where it was, then lock the phone. I do not want it back.
At nine eighteen, I call Nico.
“What?”
“If Claire calls anyone here, I do not want to know unless she asks for me.”
He is quiet for a second.
“All right.”
“If she needs something from Bellamare, whoever she contacts can handle it. No reports about where she is, what she is doing, or whether someone sees her.”
“And if she asks for you?”
“Then tell me.”
“Fine.”
“Tell the staff the same.”
“They were not reporting.”
“I know.”
“Then why tell them?”
Because somebody will mention seeing her in town. A driver will know a road she used. A housekeeper will notice whether Casa Ginestra has been opened. Information collects around me without anyone considering it unusual.
“Because I will listen if they do.”
Nico says nothing for a moment. For years, people have learned that if I know, I can handle it. Apparently I trained everyone too well.
“I’ll tell them.”
He hangs up.
At ten twenty-three, Milan calls. The inspection issue from last week has become an actual problem.
A flooring supplier delivered the wrong stone to three guest suites, the installation team began work before anyone caught it, and the replacement shipment cannot arrive before the soft opening unless we move material from another property.
There are photographs. They are appalling.
For forty minutes, I have something concrete to do.
I call the property director, then procurement.
I reject the first replacement option because the stone is technically correct and visually wrong.
I approve unopened material from Florence, authorize the transport cost, move two crews, and tell the contractor not to tear out finished work until the replacement is physically on site. At eleven eleven, the problem is contained. My assistant says, “That was unpleasant.”
“Yes.”
“The supplier wants to speak with you directly.”
“No.”
“I thought not.”
“Have legal document the replacement cost. Procurement can handle the relationship.”
“Done.”
She pauses.
“Anything else?”
I look at one of the photographs on my screen. The wrong stone is a pale gray with blue veining. The approved sample is warmer. Claire would say the replacement looks like an expensive bathroom designed by somebody who hates skin tones. My mouth almost moves.
“Nothing else,” I say.
I end the call. The room is quiet. I pick up my phone before I have decided why.
The photograph is still open. Claire would hate the stone.
I can hear the skin-tone comment clearly enough to know exactly where she would pause before saying it.
My thumb rests over the message icon. I put the phone facedown instead.
At one, Casa Bellamare is loud. Luca has made lunch for six people despite there being five of us.
Nobody comments on the extra plate until he removes it himself.
Sebastian tells a story about a producer who tried to put a live goat in a commercial shoot without informing the insurance company.
Normally Claire would ask whether the goat had representation.
The thought arrives in her voice. I hate that my brain can do this without permission.
Adrian notices me stop eating. He does not ask why. Nico reaches for the water.
Sebastian says, “You know what I would do?”
“No,” I say.
“I would make an enormous romantic gesture.”
Luca closes his eyes. Sebastian holds up both hands.
“Relax. I am illustrating what not to do.”
“That would be a new use for you,” Nico says.
“I contain multitudes.”
Adrian takes a piece of bread. Sebastian looks at me again.
“For the record, I know she asked for space.”
“Yes.”
“And I know you are respecting it.”
“Yes.”
He waits. I know what he wants. I also know he is trying very hard not to turn this into entertainment.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Sebastian.”
He rubs one thumb over the side of his glass.
“Are you going to fix it?”
Luca stops serving himself. Nico looks down. Adrian keeps eating, which means he is listening. I would prefer the goat story.
“I do not know,” I say.
Sebastian’s expression changes.
“You don’t know how?”
“I do not know if I get to.”
Nobody answers. Adrian reaches for the olive dish and moves it toward me. I look at him.
“What?”
“You have not eaten one.”
“That is your contribution?”
“Yes.”
I take an olive. Sebastian exhales through his nose.
Luca says, “Excellent work, Adrian.” Adrian looks at him.
“He ate it.” The table moves again after that.
Plates. Water. Sebastian complains that nobody appreciates restraint when he demonstrates it once every four years.
No one tries to answer for Claire. Luca eventually reaches for the bread again.
Nico says, “The goat would have had representation.” Sebastian looks offended.
“Thank you.”
Lunch continues. At four fourteen, I return to my house.
Claire’s hair tie is no longer around the lamp.
I moved it to the drawer the morning after she left because I was tired of seeing it every time I crossed the room.
The charger cable is gone too. Her paperback remains on the shelf.
That one is actually hers. I take it down.
There is a receipt between pages one hundred and forty-two and one hundred and forty-three.
A café in Amalfi. Two coffees. One pastry.
She used it as a bookmark. I put the receipt back exactly where it was.
Then I put the book on the table. For the next hour, I work.
At five thirty, I answer two calls. At six, I walk to Casa Bellamare because Luca has threatened dinner again.
At seven twenty, I return alone. One of the gardeners is closing the lower gate as I pass.
“Buona sera, Signor Bellandi.”
“Buona sera.”
He hesitates. For one second, I know exactly what is coming. He has seen Claire. Or heard something. Or knows whether Casa Ginestra has been opened. I feel my attention sharpen before he speaks.
“The irrigation timer near the east wall is sticking again.”
The relief is so immediate it embarrasses me.
“I’ll have Paolo look at it tomorrow.”
“Grazie.”
I keep walking. Only after I reach my house do I realize I never asked the question I wanted to ask.
Casa Ginestra is dark. I look at it anyway, then go inside.
My calendar for tomorrow is open on the desk.
Nine thirty, call with Milan. Eleven, contract review.
One, lunch. Three, property budget. Five thirty, nothing. The empty space irritates me.
Usually I would fill it. There are at least four calls I could move forward.
A site review I could request. A report I could finish.
I move the cursor to five thirty. Then stop.
Claire once accused me of planning an unplanned Sunday because I opened a map.
I close the calendar. At nine forty-seven, I get into bed.
At nine fifty-one, I get out and check the terrace doors.
Locked. At nine fifty-three, I check my phone.
No message. I put it on the table. At ten twelve, I pick it up again.
Still nothing. I open the calendar instead.
Tomorrow. Five thirty is still blank. I leave it that way.
I have no idea what I will do with the hour. I turn off the screen and go to bed.