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Glancing around the red and white splendor that was my room in this five-star hotel, I suppose I could say I was doing better than just scraping by. But this was a work trip, so there was that. Bonetti Farms Olive Oil was footing this bill. If I’d had to pay, I’d be sleeping in a gondola and skipping off before the gondolier arrived for his shift.
A soft rap on the door shook me from my musings and morning coffee. Rising, I tied my robe tightly around my middle and made my way to the door to find the same bellhop who’d wrestled my trunks into my room for me yesterday standing in the hall.
“Buongiorno, Antonio,” I said and got a smile as bright as the sun rising over the city of bridges.
“Buongiorno, Signor Bonetti. A note for you.” He passed over a tray that held a thick white vellum envelope. I plucked up the missive, thanked the bellhop, and then moseyed back into my room with the mystery letter. Very odd. Who in this day and age sent notes to people? I rubbed the envelope between my fingers as I stepped out onto the tiny patio. Today would be another scorcher. When I woke up, I’d checked the weather app, as I’d started doing daily, and frowned at the high heat and low precipitation forecast. Something was going to have to break soon or our olive farms were going to have some difficult times. Wow! Funny fact: me checking the weather and fretting over silly trees is something new for me. Before, the only time I cared if it was going to rain or shine was when I was heading out on a trip. Oh yay, snow in Aspen! Oh cool, sunny in Aruba. Now, here I am looking at long-range forecasts for the Tuscan countryside in a whole new way. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
I turned my back to the canal, ran my finger under the soft as satin flap and extracted a white card with bold, masculine handwriting. Cursive. So someone older as that was a skill that wasn’t even being taught in schools anymore, at least not in the States.
Arlo,
Apologies for not reaching out sooner. I just arrived from a conference in France. I am looking forward to spending time with you over the next three days of the congress. Perhaps we could have dinner tonight to discuss what we’ve been presented on day one?
Yours as ever ~ Ricardo
“What the ever-loving fuck?” I mumbled, turning the card over to see a neatly embossed sigil of a star over what looked to be a spoked wheel, the words MINISTERO POLITICHE AGRICOLE across the star and wheat sheafs. Were they sheafs? I squinted but couldn’t be sure, but I was sure that this Ricardo was the same Ricardo Martinelli who I’d had a meal with not that long ago. “Hmm, I suspect something is afoot, Daphne,” I said to myself. How did the undersecretary know I was in Venice, at this hotel, in this room? “My deductions of the clues lead me to believe that the interloper and information supplier to the undersecretary is none other than Aunt Ginerva!” I waggled a finger in the air as I realized I sounded a great deal like Fred Jones as he pulled a mask of a bad guy.
I stalked back into my room, flung the card onto the nightstand where it fluttered down to land beside the lamp, and tugged my phone out of the pocket of my robe.
“Talk about cheeky,” I huffed as I rang my aunt. Texting wasn’t really her thing. She only read them once a week. I knew because I’d had to empty out her voice messages before I left for Venice because she kept getting a popup notice that she disliked. “Come on, find your phone and answer.”
It rang and rang and rang. I sent a text knowing it would go unheeded. Where could she be?! Oh, it was Saturday. She was probably at confession. Would she be telling the good father that she set up her great-nephew in a totally unscrupulous way? What was the penance tally for playing matchmaker for your gay great-nephew? Five thousand Our Fathers, at the very least.
“Fine, don’t pick up!” I yelled into my phone, then chucked it at the bed. It bounced onto a rumpled pillow, flashing madly at some incoming notifications. Probably my followers reacting to my latest IG post, showing me, in all my bedhead glory, with Venice behind me. My robe may have been opened a wee bit. Or a lot. Total thirst trap. I stomped and mumbled through my morning routine, still fit to be tied when I was shucking my vest up over my arms.
No one was hitting me back. Not my aunt or Donvino or Bianca. Okay, how sad was it that I really only had three people who were steady contacts? Please note no mention of the man who had sired me. And no old friends or old pickups or old…well, old anyone. Ugh, I was in such a pique that I nearly forgot to run my fingers through my hair to make it look tousled.
I stormed downstairs, phone in my little leather bag dangling over my shoulder, and was met in the lobby by an extremely tired-looking Ricardo Martinelli. He smiled over his cup of cappuccino as he rose from the dark blue sofa he’d been sitting on. The flash of his white teeth was appealing and honest. He did seem truly happy to see me. He placed his coffee onto a round glass table, took my hand offered for a shake, and lifted it to his lips. Right in front of the hotel manager, several bleary-eyed tourists, and God himself.
Thankfully, the lobby was on the smallish side, what my aunt would call an elite establishment, which means, in Ginerva speak, a tiny place that cost a lot.
“Oh well, that’s quite the greeting. Did I step into a Raoul Bova fantasy?” I withdrew my hand tactfully.
“Ah, if only I had his looks…” Ricardo replied with proper political humbleness. The man had to know he was quite attractive. Every newsperson far and wide commented on how handsome the undersecretary was, so surely, he knew he was a hottie. “And his acting skills.”
“I’m quite shocked to see you here,” I said, nodding when Ricardo motioned to the dining room sitting to the right of the main desk. A table on the veranda was found for us toot sweet and we were seated under a bright yellow umbrella next to a pot overflowing with mandevilla.
“Two coffees, please?” Ricardo asked the server, a slim older man with a Salvador Dali mustache, in Italian. “Room ten,” he added, also in Italian, which I understood. Hot damn, I was learning the language! I’d have to take Señorina Cappello an apple on Tuesday morning. “I will cover our breakfasts,” he offered.
I was too busy being hung up on the fact that our rooms were side-by-side. Coincidence? I think not.
“That’s quite generous,” I answered, then smiled at our server when he returned with a silver pot of steaming coffee, some cream in a petite earthenware pitcher, and raw sugar in a crystal bowl. The older couple across from us nodded at Ricardo while shooting me curious looks. “So, funny that my great-aunt never mentioned you would be attending this congress.”
He laid down the menu to stare at me over the cups the server had just filled for us. “Did she not?”
“No, she did not, nor did she say anything about our rooms being right next to each other. I suspect that she is playing matchmaker.”
He smiled softly. Charming as all get out the man was, I could admit that, but he wasn’t Donvino.
“I suspect you are right. Would that be such a bad thing, Arlo?” He waved off the server and focused all that charisma right on me. “I find you enchanting. Perhaps if we spent a few days together here in Venice, we might find ourselves in a friendship.”
Oh yeah, he was good. Polished as hell and incredibly sexy even with jet lag pulling at the corners of his eyes.
“I’m always happy to make new friends,” I told him, hoping that would get my message across in a polite way. This man was obviously important to our mills, so that meant he had to be handled with kid gloves.
“Excellent. So, we’ll have our breakfast then head to the congress. I can warn you that it will be incredibly boring for such a vibrant young man as yourself, but if you wish to sit with me, I can do my best to entertain you while explaining anything that might confuse you. Your aunt has told me that you are not well-versed in the ways of all things agriculture yet.”
“Having someone with your knowledge will be great, grazie.”
