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“Good evening, Señorina Cappello,” I said and bowed.
“In Italiano,” Señorina Cappello instructed, moving over an inch to give Ginerva room to sit.
“I would, but I have only completed my numbers,” I reminded her, giving her a wink that got a few more giggles from the women in shades of black, blue, and magenta. My aunt was the most vibrant one in this cluster of matrons and she knew it. I backed away from the ladies, exhaled, and gave the room a long, long study. Only a few people here of my age, and most of them were serving drinks or toting trays of hors d’oeurves. God this was going to be a long night. Still, if I played my cards right, I could make a success of this gathering. Digging into my front jacket pocket, I pulled out my phone.
Shoulders back, smile in place, I began to socialize.
I schmoozed the living hell out of that birthday party. I took selfies with everyone, laughed at jokes that weren’t funny fifty years ago and certainly weren’t now, and slapped my business card in every hand I could. My father and aunt could cling to that stupid dream that I was taking over the reins of Bonetti Farms Olive Oil all they wanted. Arlo Bonetti was no dirt farmer. Each card that I handed out had my name embossed on it with the title ‘Social Media Influencer & Steam Trunk Artiste’ under my moniker. I’d had them printed before I left for Fire Island. Needless to say, they’d not gotten much use as I was doing other things. Now was the time to start networking, just like Great-aunt Ginerva and dear Papà wanted. I hashtagged Bonetti Farms Olive Oil all over the place, adding other little gems like #steamertrunks #onlythecoolkidstravelwithtrunks, and one of my faves #maketrunksnotwar which was getting all kinds of traction.
If I had to be here at a party for those with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, I might as well make the most of it. The night would have been so much more enjoyable if I’d been sitting at that cozy eatery having Donvino feed me, wine me, and take me home. I’d gladly suffer through another death-defying ride through Florence with my knees on his hips and my arms around his middle.
I sent a text to him around ten, informing him that I was escorting my aunt to a lame party with no open bar, no DJ, and no one in attendance under forty.
That is nice for you to dote on your aunt. Good heart, Arlo. ~ D
I chewed on that for a moment as dessert was being served. Good heart Arlo. Not so sure that was an apt descriptor of me. I’d laid into Ginerva pretty soundly on the ride here. Sneaking a peek down the long table, I found her watching me as she sipped a glass of red wine. I lifted my champagne to her, got a nod, and then went back to trying not to gag on the breath of the prime minister’s aide. Honestly, I’d never smelt such foul breath on any living creature that wasn’t a ruminant.
Enjoy the party. See you in the morning on the dock? ~ D
I rushed to reply with a coy little ‘Maybe’ and chuckled at the sad face emoji reply. I left him to wonder and turned my attention to the man on my left, smiling through the fog of halitosis to slip him my card as I asked if he would like a custom-made steamer trunk. I’d never redone one before, but a man had to start somewhere. If I could get some interest tonight, I could start making my designer trunks. They’d take off, I’d open my own store, and tell my father and his olives to take a long fucking walk off a very short pier. When I was a steamer trunk millionaire, I wouldn’t need his money or his extra virgin anything.
“Steamer trunks are the only way to travel and not have to roll your delicates into satin logs,” I insisted at his dubious look.
“Do you have satin panties?” he asked, his dragon breath thick as the zabaglione being placed before us.
“Only my steamer trunks know for sure!”
He laughed. I laughed even as my eyes watered. And I could hear the ping-ping-ping of fashionable folk hitting me up in DMs to ask about the trunks in my mind.
Chapter Eight
Rolling about the next morning, I blinked awake to bright sunshine streaming into the lemon-yellow room. My eyes were gummy. We’d not rolled in until well after two a.m. due to my aunt needing to spend hours gossiping to her friends about who knew what—they all spoke Italian, so all I grasped were numbers when I heard them—then deciding Señorina Cappello was staying the night at our villa for some reason only they knew. I called for Alessio and stepped outside to check on my IG feed. The prime minister’s aide had appeared out of nowhere, asked if he could see my silken panties, and then grew sulky when I told him no. It wasn’t nearly as attractive a look on him as it was on me.
Knowing I had missed breakfast judging by the slant of the sun, I showered and dressed in some casual shorts that showed off my legs, a tank top with a slit up the back to show off my spine, and sandals to show off my tiny toes. I did grab a hat with a wide brim, sunglasses, and my phone. Finding food in the kitchen was surprising to say the least.
“Signora was home late so is acceptable to eat later today,” Giada informed me, then heaped eggs, seasoned tomatoes, some sausage, and several pieces of toast onto a plate for me.
“Can I have some for Donvino? I’m meeting him on the dock, and he will probably be hungry.”
She gave me the oddest look but complied, taking my plate back to fill containers and then packing them into a basket she’d fetched out of the pantry.
“Grazie,” I chimed as I made my way out back. The day was already well underway, but I was feeling chipper, probably because I knew I’d be seeing Donvino soon. Lucia joined me, slinking out of her napping spot, curled around the base of a lemon tree in a pot. “Buongiorno,” I whispered to the cat as we made our way through the mossy door to where the Arno flowed musically along. I settled down on the pier crisscross applesauce, took out a thermos of coffee, and logged into my IG account. I needed to get my own service soon, but since I had less than a hundred bucks in my checking account—working man wages, thanks, Dad—I was still using Wi-Fi when I could find it. I was just about to check my DMs, for there seemed to be a slew of them when I glanced up to find Donvino rowing toward the dock. My heart sped up at the sight.
He smiled widely, easing the scull closer, then leaping out with experienced grace.
“Buongiorno,” I called from my seat on the dock. He pulled his boat out of the water a bit, resting it on the edge of the pier, then sat down, his long legs in front of him. I drank in the sight of all that rugged masculinity. His skin was shiny with sweat, his dark hair plastered to his head, and his jaw was thick with black whiskers. I wanted to jump his big strong bones. “I brought us a late breakfast.”
“That is gracious,” he said, opening the lid to the basket and taking out a water bottle that he downed in several greedy gulps.
“Your grandmother packed it for us. So, how was your row?” I sipped my coffee while he talked. He handed out containers of food, chattering along as we ate, and only after he was done eating did he imbibe in some coffee.
“…working hard for this week and next for the competition.” He removed the chewy crust from my toast for the quackers paddling our way.
“What competition is that?” I asked as he tore the crust into small bits for Bongo and Bonita. The mallards gobbled up the offerings, the drake giving us a raspy quack in thanks before leading his lady love off to search the edge of the river for other duckie treats.
“I just tell you not a minute before the ducks come,” he teased, reaching out to tweak my nose playfully before growing serious. “It is a competition in Pisa. If I do well there and then in several other contests, I maybe qualify for the national team. But it is hard with no money to back a rower. Still, I try every year to make a team.”
The ducks swam off while Lucia tried to climb into the now empty basket. He removed her, chided her gently, and then placed her little gray paws on the pier. Off she went in a huff, tail in the air.
