Epilogue
CLAIRE
Matteo moves my battery charger six inches to the left.
I move it back.
He looks at the shelf, then at me.
“Why?”
“Because that is where it lives.”
“It blocks the outlet.”
“It is plugged into the outlet.”
“That is not the same thing.”
I am sitting cross-legged on the end of his bed with one sock on, one sock missing, and a half-unpacked camera bag between my knees.
“Do you want to start our first morning back with an argument about electrical access?”
“It is seven twelve.”
“So yes.”
His mouth moves.
I find the second sock inside a lens pouch.
There are probably reasonable explanations for this.
None come to mind.
Matteo watches me pull it out.
“I am going to say nothing.”
“Excellent choice.”
“I want credit.”
“Too late.”
He walks into the bathroom.
I put the charger back where I want it.
Eleven months ago, the shelf held exactly three things.
Now it holds Matteo’s watch tray, two books, my charger, an ugly ceramic dish Sebastian bought in Naples because he said every room needed one object that offended Matteo personally, and a small roll of black gaffer tape I have been looking for since February.
I pick up the tape.
“Found it.”
From the bathroom, Matteo says, “It has been there for six weeks.”
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing?”
“You did not ask.”
I stare toward the doorway.
He appears fastening his watch.
“That was rude.”
“You said you wanted me to stop solving problems you had not given me.”
“I was missing tape.”
“You were in Vancouver.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“You bought more.”
“That is also irrelevant.”
He comes close enough to take the roll from my hand and put it back on the shelf.
I take it again.
“Mine.”
“I know.”
I kiss him before the argument can become respectable.
He tastes like toothpaste and the coffee he drank before I woke up.
I slide a hand behind his neck.
His settles at my waist.
The kiss deepens just enough to make the missing sock unimportant.
Then somebody outside shouts Matteo’s name.
He closes his eyes.
I laugh against his mouth.
“Bellamare.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You love them.”
“I did not say otherwise.”
Luca shouts again.
Matteo calls, “What?”
“Coffee.”
“I have coffee.”
A pause.
“Claire does not.”
I pull back.
“See? Someone cares.”
Matteo looks personally betrayed.
“I was about to make yours.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
He takes my hand.
We go downstairs.
I returned to Bellamare yesterday after eighteen days of work in Denmark and Sweden, three flights, one ferry, two hotel rooms with almost no usable desk space, and a final connection through Rome that arrived without my large suitcase.
The suitcase appeared six hours later.
Matteo did not call the airline.
He asked if I wanted him to.
I said no.
He looked miserable for approximately four seconds and handed me one of his shirts.
The suitcase arrived before dinner.
I wore the shirt anyway.
This morning it is still on the chair beside his bed.
My things no longer look temporary here.
Outside, Bellamare is already noisy.
Sebastian is on the main terrace trying to convince Nico that a boat can have personality.
“It can have handling characteristics,” Nico says.
“That is personality.”
“That is machinery.”
“You are machinery.”
Nico looks at me as I pass.
“Tell him.”
“I have been home twelve hours.”
“Exactly. You are neutral.”
“I am never neutral.”
“Thank you,” Sebastian says.
“That was not support.”
Adrian is at the far end of the terrace with coffee and a newspaper folded into an exact square. He lifts two fingers at me.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
Luca points toward the kitchen.
“Eat.”
“I have not had coffee.”
“Then coffee. Then eat.”
They already know I have a shoot in Paris in nine days because I mentioned it over dinner and Sebastian complained that Paris gets me before he does.
He meant professionally.
Probably.
Matteo’s hand rests at the small of my back as we pass through the kitchen door.
He is not steering.
He is just there.
He goes to the machine.
I lean against the counter.
The room looks the same as last summer and completely different.
There is a photograph of Luca’s hands taped beside the pantry because he insists it is the only picture I have ever taken that makes him look competent.
There is a postcard from Kyoto under a magnet shaped like a lemon.
Sebastian has drawn a mustache on the temple pictured on the front.
Nico denied involvement too quickly.
Adrian has written, in tiny letters, childish.
My handwriting is underneath his.
Correct.
Matteo presses the button for my espresso without asking what I want.
Double, before noon, with water beside it.
He sets the cup near my hand and goes back for his own.
I pick it up.
The gesture is so ordinary I almost miss what it does to me.
I drink before I register that he got it exactly right.
The coffee is perfect.
“You changed beans.”
Matteo turns.
“Luca changed beans.”
“I dislike them.”
“I know.”
“You know already?”
“You made a face yesterday.”
“I had been awake for twenty hours.”
“You still made the face.”
“What face?”
“The one you make when coffee disappoints you but you are too tired to insult it properly.”
I narrow my eyes.
“You are very pleased with yourself.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
I take another drink.
He is right about the beans, which is irritating.
He sees it anyway.
“Do not.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face did.”
“I have several faces.”
“You have five.”
His head turns slowly.
I grin into the cup.
It takes him one second to remember the argument on the path last summer.
Then he laughs.
That is my favorite version of winning.
We take our coffee to his terrace.
I work here when he is in Milan. When I am gone, he sends me photographs of bad weather without commentary because he knows I like the clouds.
I sit in the chair nearest the wall.
The chair no longer wobbles because the leg finally cracked in March while Sebastian was sitting in it.
Matteo sent me a photograph of Sebastian on the ground.
I called before I finished laughing.
We bought a replacement together.
I chose one Matteo hated.
Matteo has survived the replacement.
So has the chair.
For several minutes, we say nothing.
This was one of the first things I misunderstood about Matteo.
I thought his morning silence meant he did not want anybody near him.
It meant he wanted ten minutes before the world became loud.
Now I am here for some of those mornings. Other times I am in another country and he is alone, or we miss the call because his meeting runs long, my train loses signal, or one of us falls asleep at an offensive hour.
Once, in Tokyo, he waited forty minutes for me to call before realizing I had mixed up the time difference.
He was furious.
So was I.
We argued for eleven minutes.
Then I showed him the vending-machine coffee I had bought as an apology.
He said it looked poisonous.
I drank it anyway.
The next morning, he called at the correct time.
That is what the last eleven months have looked like: flights, work, his openings, my shoots, a weekend in Madrid that lasted thirty-six hours because his schedule broke, five days in New York where mine did, and three missed calls in one week.
There was also a Christmas argument about whether “I’m fine” counts as useful information.
It does not, apparently.
We keep coming back.
Matteo’s knee presses against mine beneath the table.
I leave it there.
He opens his tablet.
I take out my camera.
Neither of us speaks.
For ten minutes, the only sounds are birds, distant dishes from Casa Bellamare, and Sebastian yelling something about marine engineering.
I photograph the light on Matteo’s hand.
He looks up.
“Did you just take my picture?”
“Yes.”
“May I see it?”
“In a minute.”
He goes back to the tablet.
He does not argue.
I look at the frame: his hand beside the coffee cup, morning light across his wrist.
Nothing dramatic. I like it.
Then something occurs to me.
I have not thought about the Love List in almost a year.
Copenhagen passed without it. So did Kyoto, my extra week in London, the December fight, and this morning.
I try to remember the last time I counted.
I cannot.
I used to count because I was waiting for the attention to stop.
Somewhere between Kyoto, the December fight, and this morning, I must have stopped waiting.
Matteo reaches for his coffee.
Before he drinks, he slides my water closer because I have pushed it out of reach with the camera.
He never looks up from the tablet.
I smile.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He looks at me now.
“That is suspicious.”
“I was thinking.”
“More suspicious.”
I lean across the table and kiss him.
He catches the back of my neck.
The kiss lasts longer than morning-coffee etiquette probably allows.
When I sit back, Matteo’s expression has changed.
“Paris in nine days,” he says.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Five days. Maybe six.”
“You said five.”
“The editor added an option.”
His jaw tightens.
There he is.
“I dislike options.”
“I know.”
“Do you want me to say anything else?”
I consider that.
“No.”
“All right.”
“You can tell me you will miss me.”
“I will miss you.”
“Very good.”
“You are patronizing me.”
“A little.”
He hooks one hand under my chair and pulls me closer.
I let him.
“Come back after Paris,” he says.
I look at him.
“Bossy.”
“Request.”
“Poorly phrased.”
His thumb moves once against my knee.
“Will you come back after Paris?”
I kiss the corner of his mouth.
“Yes.”
Bellamare is still Bellamare. Matteo is still Matteo.
I still have places to go.
After them, I know where I want to return.
* * * *
Thank you so much for reading The Billionaire’s Love List.