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“You may do that after your dinner with the undersecretary of agriculture, food, and forestry. Him taking time to dine with you is nothing to brush off simply so you can make a goof of yourself with your new friend.”
FFS. “Does anyone in this house ever do anything just for fun? Why does every night out have to be tied to freaking olives?”
Ginerva shared a glance with Señorina Cappello. It was one of those boomer expressions that screamed ‘kids are so clueless’ which, no, we are not.
“The undersecretary is an important man for you to know. You will be corresponding with him when you are in charge of the mills.” I opened my mouth. Ginerva threw a firm look at me over the top of her glasses. I relented silently, exhaling with all the drama I could muster, which was a ton of fucking drama. “Good, that is settled.”
If I didn’t need money so badly—and internet access—I’d be laying into both of the elderly women staring at me. Instead, I huffed, puffed, and blew nothing—or no one—down.
“Monday we will be taking a ride out to Umbria to visit our largest mill. You will be working with the manager of that mill for several weeks, so I have left some papers on your bed for you to familiarize yourself with. Please make sure you know the man’s name, at the very least.”
“You are the worst social secretary on the planet. When do you slot in any time for fun?” I just had to ask. I mean honestly.
“Last night was fun,” they both said in unison, then giggled like schoolgirls. I stared openly at the tee-heeing taking place. I wasn’t sure my great-aunt had a giggle in her, but here was one. Maybe Ginerva just needed to be with someone she liked. This made me feel like donkey droppings stuck to the bottom of her petite gold slippers.
“If you’re over eighty,” I mumbled, stood, and excused myself. They started speaking to each other in Italian as soon as I left. I paused just to the right of the door to eavesdrop, but…Italian. I was going to really have to put some mustard into my lessons if I ever wished to reach the snoop levels I had acquired back home. Feeling down now, I slogged upstairs to my room, feeling my spirits lift a little upon seeing the soft yellows and whites of the draperies and freshly made bed. If I closed my eyes, I could envision my mother. She would have loved this room, the sunniness, the view, the way the wind wuthered through the garden trees. “I miss you, Mom,” I whispered and opened my eyes, hoping…
But no, Mom wasn’t here. The only thing here that hadn’t been earlier was a three-ring notebook packed to the gills with paperwork. On the cover was the Bonetti Farms Olive Oil logo. That all too familiar circle with a large B in the center, four gold stars on either side, and a red olive branch under the dark blue B.
“Some papers she says,” I grumbled, threw myself on the bed, and spent an hour doing social media posts, lying my ass off to my followers about how much fun it was here. To cover up my lack of cool, young, hip outings, I started sharing snapshots of Lucia, the ducks, and shots of my bare legs as I waited on the dock for my Tuscan Mystery Man. That was what I had coined Donvino online, as I had no clue as to how he would feel about having his face plastered all over my IG and TikTok feeds. So I just put up some thirst traps to keep my viewers happy. His calf, his bicep, a peek at his shoulders from the back. Those pulled so many little hearts. People were demanding I tell, but I refused. Mostly due to the fact while I maybe sort of hinted that there was something romantic taking place, sadly there was not. We’d flirted insanely, yes, but nothing more. Donvino was a little shy, perhaps. That was so new to me that I found it impossible to resist. All the guys that I socialized with were all about random sex. The more the merrier. I was too—or had been—before I’d been shipped off to this elegant monastery. Now I was a monk with zero access to porn due to parental controls that my uptight aunt had firmly in place and no nights out with friends.
“Abbott Arlo,” I moaned, then rolled to a seated position, lifted the binder, and opened it. The cover page was just the Bonetti Farms Olive Oil logo with something written in Italian in small print. “If all of this is in Italian, I’m going to be…kind of relieved,” I told the empty room.
Sadly, all ten gazillion pages were in English. I read about five pages and studied the faces of the people who ran our companies: my father and great-aunt and me. Funny, they had a photo of me above some older guys who were much more invested in our mills than I would ever be.
Family. La familia. It was everything to my father. The man who had yet to even call me or send a text to see if I was still breathing. For all he knew, I could be floating face down in the Arno. A bloated, once pretty rich boy that some poor tourist on a gondola—no wait that was Venice, not Firenze, so some poor tourist on the Ponte Vecchio—had spied as they fed their kid some raspberry gelato. The polizia would be called. They would fish me out of the river with long poles, then ship me off to some cold storage facility where I would be put into a cryogenic chamber unbeknownst to those who knew and loved me. Which was nobody.
The words began to blur. I chucked the binder aside, rolled to my back, and stared at the ceiling above my bed. There had to be something to do around here. Something. I found my phone under my backside, opened it with a press of a thumb, and went to my Pinterest account. There I found my steamer trunk boards. Such beauties they were. Oh shit, I had some DMs to check out. I dove into them, editing out the rando men who wanted to send me dick pics or have me include more shots of my toes. What was it about my wee little digits that turned men on so? Then I began reading over the ones from people with Italian surnames I was unfamiliar with. I sat up, eyes wide, mouth agape, to see at least ten people expressing an interest in seeing some of my original steamer trunks. One was the wife of the steel magnate.
“No shit,” I softly said, smiling at the influx of interest. Lucia arrived with a soft meow as she leapt onto my bed. I reached out with one hand, her smoky fur soft under my palm. “Do you know where a man can find some old trunks?”
She bonked my chin with her nose and darted off. I followed because cats are known to be superior beings who totally understand and can communicate with humans. Barefoot, I followed the feline down the hall, past several guest rooms and a solarium filled with lemon, lime, and avocado trees in small pots. Lucia stopped just outside the solarium, meowed, then sat down and glanced up. I did the same. Lo and behold, a trapdoor that had to lead to an attic was right above us.
“You are the smartest cat ever,” I cooed, giving her several good chin scrubs before hurrying into the solarium to drag a chair into the hallway. I had to get on my tippytoes to reach the chain, but I did it, and with a dusty creak the folding stairs nearly came down on my head. Lucia skittered off a few feet to observe from under a cherry side table holding a small statue of the Virgin Mary, a lit candle, and some flower petals scattered at the lady’s feet.
Once the ladder was fully down, I rushed back to my room for my phone, came back, and caught sight of a slender gray tail as it disappeared into the darkness. Using the flashlight on my phone, I carefully climbed up, easing my head through the opening, and shined the light into the dusty attic. One small window at the other end of the cluttered space allowed just two squares of light to fall on boxes, totes, and…
“Oh, Lucia,” I gasped as my eyes fell on not one, not two, but four gorgeous old steamer trunks. I rushed up, took a few steps, and decided that it would have been wise to put some shoes on. Mouse turds between one’s toes was decidedly uncool. It was only a slight pause. The trunks were calling to me like the seductive sirens they were. I picked my way carefully along, avoiding stubbing my tootsies on old tables covered with drop cloths, several sewing forms, and hat boxes by the dozens. I took a moment to open one of the hatboxes. Inside sat a beautiful bright green straw hat with a tulle bow. “I wished ladies still wore hats like these.”
I lifted it out of the box, set it on my head, and gave it a pat. Lucia made a sound in the far corner, a chittering call that I took to mean she had seen something moving up here. I’d leave her to worry about the rodents. Hat sitting on my head, I moved to the nearest trunk, pushed some older luggage to the side, and used my hand to brush off some feathers, a few mouse droppings, and several inches of dust.
Coughing lightly, I eased the top up, knelt down, and began investigating the piles of clothing stored carefully inside. The strong scent of mothballs floated upward as I lifted a tiny blanket, hand-knitted, of blue and white. I rubbed my cheek on the baby blanket. Was this my fathers? It seemed impossible to imagine Tommaso Bonetti as an infant, or even as a child, but obviously, he had been at one time. Had he been less uptight back then? Did he like to play and run? Was he mischievous? Did my great-aunt have to punish him for breaking vases or carrying frogs into the villa? To me, I couldn’t imagine him being a normal kid. No one ever told stories about his youth or the trouble he got in like most people do. Dad never reminisced about his younger days in any way that wasn’t lacquered, with a thick coat of work, responsibility, and commitment to the company. I leaned up and found more baby clothes. Sleepers with footies, tiny beanies, itty-bitty socks, and mittens. A snowsuit of pale blue with white bunnies sewn on either side of the zipper. I sat back on my heels, studying the snowsuit. Had my father ever built a snow fort or crafted a mound of snowballs to pelt his nanny with when she came looking for him? Had he made snow angels or sledded?
I knew that snow fell in Italy, along the Alps and Dolomites, for lots of my acquaintances went skiing there. Did my family ever venture north to frolic in the snow? I just could not envision a holiday of any kind. My father and I never went on vacations together after my mother had died. He was working, always working, and I was just an annoyance. A noisy, needy, snotty kid whose only role was to become a drone for the Bonetti Farms Olive Oil mega hive. Well, fuck all that. I tossed the baby clothes aside, stacking them on top of a newish tote that looked to have green Christmas garland in it, and emptied the trunk.
Lucia came streaking out hot on the tail of a mouse. I squealed and jumped into the now empty trunk as the mouse and cat played a game of tag. Lucia nearly had him once, but he veered left when she pounced right. After a moment the cat sat beside a retired canister vacuum, her sharp eye on the long hose where she thought the mouse had hidden. I eased myself out of the trunk, closed it, and ran my fingers over the old locks. They seemed to be in good shape as was the rest of the trunk. It just needed some TLC and a glow-up. Some new paper on the inside, a drawer to replace the one that should have been inside but wasn’t, and some new leather accoutrements and she would be ready to sail the seven seas again!
“Sorry to interrupt but this needs to come with me,” I told Lucia and put my back into pulling the trunk to the trapdoor. It was heavier than it looked, even empty, and I was panting by the time I got it to the stairs. Lucia watched from a distance, her tail swooshing back and forth to dust a half arc on the wooden flooring as I maneuvered, cussed, and began backing down the stairs with a steamer trunk following me. The side handles were sturdy, thank God, because the trunk was in a hurry to exit the attic. It thudded down the short stairs, chasing me until we both hit the bottom. I threw my hip into it to stop it from crashing into me.
“Arlo, whatever are you doing?!” Ginerva called, exiting her room with her face half made up to find me coated in sweat and mouse droppings and pulling a steamer trunk down her hall. “Why have you taken this old thing from the attic?”
Lucia jogged past, a mouse in her mouth, and all talk of the steamer trunk ended when the cat dropped the still incredibly alive mouse at Ginerva’s feet. Fifteen minutes later, the mouse had somehow escaped from Giada’s broom and Alessio’s shoe. Ginerva had to be helped down from a wobbly footstool in her bedroom. She gave me a glower while Señorina Cappello flitted around with powder puffs filled with talcum.
“Arlo, explain please.” Ginerva softly tutted at her friend then sat down to sip on some chilled tea with lemon. Señorina sat beside her, worrying at her turban as she gazed at Ginerva with concern.
“I found an old trunk in the attic,” I began. She rolled her dark eyes. “Several people from the birthday party last night have expressed an interest in purchasing one.” She snorted. “I shit you not.” Full of myself and my dreams, I strode over to show her the messages from potential clients. “Signora Ercolano was very excited.” I showed her the message and waited, dirty toes tapping on the thick throw rug in her sleeping chambers. Her sight darted to the DM, then to the trunk, and then, finally, to me.
“I see. Well, this hobby of yours is fine as long as it does not take up time from your Italian lessons with Vittoria or your days with the company learning what you will need to know.”
