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The barkeep snapped out Donvino’s name, making him startle. “You should go. He is waiting for you.”
I turned my head to see Ricardo standing by the bottom of the stairs, his sight on me and Donvino. He seemed okay with chilling there and I turned to say that to Donvino, but he was gone. I spun to find him climbing the stairs, his back straight, his delightful ass right there. Was he mad at me for having a business dinner? What the absolute hell was he upset about? And why did my aunt not mention that the man she was “too sick” to meet for dinner was as queer as I was? She and I were going to have a long talk when I got home. This whole thing felt like a setup to me.
Blowing out a breath of pure exasperation, I plodded over to Ricardo, rubbed my belly, and let him lead me outside to meet his limo.
“Would you like to go to a club?”
Gods yes, I so wanted to go to a club, but not with this man. I wanted to check out the gay scene in Florence with Donvino, a guy who I suspected was bi or pan but had yet to come right out and say so. I should go with Ricardo, throw myself into the grind and sweat of a gay club, and maybe even let him take me to his place to fuck. It had been ages since that infamous night on Fire Island.
“I think I should get home and check on my poor, sickly aunt,” I said instead, then spent the ride home silently mulling over why I hadn’t chosen the party scene. That was so unlike me. I wasn’t sure who Arlo Bonetti even was right now, but whoever he was, he was a massive party pooper.
***
Ricardo waited in the driveway until I got inside, giving me a small wave of his hand before I ducked into the darkened foyer. The house was silent, so I crept upstairs, tiptoeing past Señorina Cappello’s guest room, then stopping outside my great-aunt’s door. I could hear her television playing, the volume rather loud, and so I rapped once, cracked the door, and stuck my head in.
Her room was alight, the lamps all on, glowing a soft safflower on the gold filigree on the oils hanging on the wall. Ginerva and Señorina Cappello were resting in her massive bed, glasses on, prim nightgowns of lavender and rose with tiny pearl buttons with matching robes covering their necks and arms. A thick duvet of white and gold swirls rested on their laps.
Both women stared at me openly. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were having a slumber party,” I said loudly so that I could be heard over an Italian dubbed version of Oceans 11, the original version with the Rat Pack and not the newer one with Clooney. Both were good, but nothing could beat Frank, Dean, and Sammy. No way and no how.
My aunt studied me over the top of her glasses. Señorina Cappello smiled and dropped what looked to be a fig into her mouth.
“Did you wish something?” my aunt tersely asked.
“Well, I just wanted to make sure you were feeling better.” Her dark eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. “Imagine my shock when I found out that you were so ill you couldn’t make the dinner with Signor Martinelli tonight. When I saw you last, you seemed to be the picture of health. Was your tummy upset?” I glanced at the massive bowl of—yep, they were candied figs—sitting on the cover between my aunt and her friend. “If you two ate that bowlful, I could see why you’d be too sick to talk trade.”
“I only had a few figs,” Ginerva replied coolly, even though her back was up. “My dyspepsia came on suddenly, so I opted to send you in my stead. Did you and Signor Martinelli have a nice night? I do hope you read up on the company as I requested, so you had a basic knowledge of agriculture and olive farming.”
I took a step in, arms folded over my chest, the very picture of one tiffy gay man. “You set me up.”
Ginerva rolled her eyes. Señorina Cappello offered me the dish of figs. I shook my head and then waited, foot tapping.
“It was not a setup,” my aunt finally replied. Señorina Cappello sighed dreamily when Dean Martin entered the frame. “It was you stepping in to do the job that you are required to do.”
“Okay, so first off. I will repeat this again since not one soul ever listens. I do not want to run the company.” My aunt muttered something in Italian that made Señorina Cappello cock an overly plucked eyebrow. “Second, I can get my own dates, thank you very much.”
“Arlo, it was merely a business meeting with a handsome, respectable older man. Your taste in men seems to run to those who are less than acceptable for a Bonetti. Many gay men in Italy would have been thrilled to be out with Ricardo. He is considered quite the catch, isn’t he, Vittoria?”
“Mm? Oh, sì, uomo bellisimo,” she replied just as Frank Sinatra was being dressed down by Jean Willes. God I loved old movies. And songs. And steamer trunks. Just not older men who had been wrangled into a blind date.
Ginerva motioned to her bed buddy as if that agreement ended the conversation.
“Still, I don’t appreciate you doing that, so please do not do it again in the future. Now, I’m going to bed.”
With that, I stormed off, head high, to the sound of something glass being whipped at Frank Sinatra’s head. If only I could lob an ashtray at the wall and have Dean Martin and Peter Lawford peek in to see what the hubbub had been.
I resorted to shouting into a pillow in my room. Not quite as satisfying but chucking ashtrays or candy dishes at old ladies wasn’t exactly acceptable behavior. Nor was lobbing something at a blue-eyed crooner, but the rules back then were a lot more lax when it came to whipping things at men in skinny ties.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, I came awake, jumped into the shower at dawn, and rushed down to the back garden to find the mossy door still closed. I eased it open, stepped through, and gently made my way to the dock. Smiling in relief at seeing the scull gone, I sat down with my book and waited for Donvino. And I waited and waited and waited. Three hours I waited.
Our conversation from last night echoed around in my head as I slogged back to the villa. Dark gray clouds were moving into Florence, bringing much hoped-for rain to the region. It had been incredibly dry the past month Ricardo had informed me over our meals last night. Farmers were beginning to feel the choking fingers of a drought seeping into their crops. I’d nodded as if I cared as my mind drifted to other more entertaining things. Like Donvino, my new trunk, the zippy sauce on my dinner, the couple at the nearest table making eyes at each other.
Breakfast was just being served, a grand buffet of various dishes. My aunt and Señorina Cappello were seated at the dining table. The doors in the dining hall closed to ward off the dampness that was rolling over the villa. Tiny speckles of rain dotted the windows and doors as I took a seat at the long table, placed a napkin on my lap, and whispered my thanks to Giada as she placed a mug of cappuccino in front of me.
“Is Donvino taking the morning off?” I nonchalantly asked his grandmother. My aunt shot me a laser-like look but said nothing as she spread some sweet butter over a homemade cornetto.
“It is Sunday, Arlo,” my aunt interjected as Giada eased out of the room without looking at me. “I’m sure he’s having a small breakfast, then getting ready to go to church.”
