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“I vaguely remember her. She made me little chocolate cookies,” I whispered, the memory of a rare, pleasant visit from so long ago.
“Yes, her amaretto cookies are my pudgy,” he commented, patting his belly after parking the car in front of the door.
That made me smile. For some reason I’d not remembered Alessio at all, which was perplexing but nothing out of the ordinary for a six-year-old boy. I’d blocked out a lot. Like the creak of the wind moving through the trellises coming off the Arno River that ran along the rear of the property. The river’s aroma reached me. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell. Not at all as it would have been centuries ago when the butchers and tanneries would toss blood and offal into the waterway. Actually, the smell and sound of water had always calmed me. So, needing all the calm I could get, I climbed out of the car, deeply inhaled the scent of river and wisteria, and moved to the doorway to greet Giada.
“You have grown,” she gushed. She smelled of vanilla. “So big now. Signora, she is ready. Follow me.”
“I’ll need to get my bags,” I said and got a shake of her head. “But Alessio has lumbago.”
“Sì, but our grandson will get your bags later. Come, she is not happy to wait.” Giada scurried off so after I dashed back to grab my small personal bag I followed, stepping into the foyer, trying to drum up memories of the ancient terracotta floors, vaulted ceilings, and wooden beams. A grand staircase to the left curved gently as it rose to the second floor.
I followed her down a long corridor, peeking into frescoed rooms with sumptuous furnishings of green, yellow, white, or blue. Gilded cornices adorned each room along with oils from old Italian masters that I might have learned about in college if I had ever attended one of my Italian Renaissance art classes. Suffice it to say, there were tons of cherubs in oval golden frames. Tiny angels with tiny weens were everywhere.
We entered a sitting room, with three doors that faced the Arno, all open, allowing the breeze of the river to tickle my sweaty neck. The room was vast, far too large for the tiny but intimidating woman sitting on a settee that had probably cradled DaVinci’s backside. Great-aunt Ginerva was all in sky blue, her silver hair swept up into a beehive of sorts, her reading glasses resting on her proud nose, thin golden chains dangled from the bows. She wore pearl earrings and though her neck was bare of any jewelry, her fingers made up for the naked throat. Rings covered mostly every digit. A large gold one with the Bonetti crest grabbed my attention as it was the same style that my father wore. I’d know that crest anywhere. It was front and center of everything that I disliked about my heritage. Her eyes were as dark as the devil’s pucker, her mouth drawn just as tightly. I paused just inside the rose-toned room, allowing the stately old bitty to access me as she wished. She sniffed, sighed, and spoke to someone in Italian. Giada curtseyed and then left.
My aunt spoke to me. I shook my head. “I don’t speak Italian.”
Her eyes flared. Her lips drew tighter which only made the reference to Satan’s butthole even more relevant.
“Your father has done you no favors being so lax,” she said in subtly accented but perfect English. I yawned. I was too damn tired to care about what my father had done or not done. Who gave a shit, seriously? Ginerva exhaled, her shoulders falling just an inch. She placed her hands on her lap, a delicate tatted hankie hanging from the sleeve of her light blue Gucci blazer. The skirt matched perfectly and her tiny feet were in flats that glistened like the tabletop her espresso rested on. Her scrutiny ended when she picked up a small silver bell and gave it one ring. Giada entered a moment later, the aroma of cinnamon now mixed with vanilla as she scooted around me to speak to her mistress. “Take him to his room,” Ginerva announced, glancing from her housekeeper/cook to me. “We will speak over dinner, which is served promptly at eight.”
“I might sleep in,” I said and got two very different looks. The glance from Giada was one of shock. The one from my great-aunt was dour.
“I do not think you will.” That was the end of that conversation as Giada nudged me from the rose study out into the long corridor.
“This way, Signor Arlo,” Giada softly said, taking the lead. I dragged my ass back to the foyer, up the stairs past portraits of past Bonettis who all appeared to have Beelzebub lips like Ginerva. My father’s oil was at the top of the stairs, next to one of Ginerva that was painted when she was a younger woman. Her mouth was still a pucker. Did the woman never smile? I took another two steps and stood on the top riser, gawking at the space where, I assumed, my portrait would be hung as soon as I inherited it. My gut surged with airline food as I dwelled just for a moment on what that would be like.
“Your father was very handsome,” Giada whispered beside me. I nodded, my sight flickering back from that vacant spot to my father. He was still handsome. Italian men aged well. Perhaps that bode well for me. True, I was half and half—half Italian and half Welsh—but the Welsh also grew older with great panache. “I see him in you.”
Ugh. “He’s the reason I’m here,” I mumbled, suddenly tired of looking at paintings of people who all seemed unhappy as hell.
Giada said nothing else, turning from the stairs to lead me to the first door on the right. This wing of the house stirred a memory or a ghost of one. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“This was the room your mother loved most,” Giada informed me as she opened a heavy door of light wood to show me where I would be staying. I stepped inside, awed at the view of the river over a wide, wrought-iron balcony framed by two stately cypress trees. “She’d said the colors made her happy.”
I moved around the expansive room, toeing off my shoes, as I drank in the soft blush of pale yellow that was captured in the thick throw rugs, draperies, and bedding. While the call of the Arno pulled me toward the balcony, the siren song of the queen bed sang louder. A quick flash of recollection washed over me, stalling my fingers on my silver buttons. Me and Mom on the patio, sipping cold lemon soda, her smiling at me as I pointed out a fish leaping in an eddy.
“It’s a happy color,” I agreed as I worked on the buttons of my vest. “I’m going to nap now. Thank you for setting me up here. I vaguely remember sitting out there with Mom.”
“Thank your aunt. She said to assign this room to you.” With that, she backed out of the yellow room. I yanked off my clothes, peeling down to my slinky little pink thong, and dove at the bed. The mattress billowed up around me. Oh man, goose down for the win. The bedding smelled of lemon and sunshine. My skin felt like it had a light coating of people yuck on it. Long flights always made me feel that way and even though I’d not exerted myself in the least, I needed a shower.
I’d get up in a moment, but right now I just wanted to close my eyes and try to adjust. And not just to a new time zone. My entire life had been uprooted over one stupid blowjob. Well, two technically. And in all honesty, the sex had been meh. Not bad, not good, just so-so. We all had gotten off, so there was that. Looking back at the mediocre orgasm, I had to wonder if it had been worth the upheaval it had caused. Was the justice’s son being sent to live in some foreign country with an uptight octogenarian in Gucci? Highly doubtful. He was probably being embraced on social media for being so courageous. Which, sure, yeah, coming out was hard, and if your daddy was a conservative judge seated on the highest court in the land, that probs added a bit more difficulty to being your true you. I’d check on his posts before dinner. Right now, I just wanted a teensy nappy-poo. I wriggled under the sheet after tossing the duvet down, shoved my face into a fat pillow, and dropped off instantly to dream of cold, tart sodas and my mother’s gentle laughter.
Chapter Four
The soft touch of the sun caressing my face pulled me from slumber.
Yawning widely, I moved from my back to my side, cracked open my eyes, and had a moment of utter confusion. Then my brain clicked in. Oh right, Italy. This was not my bedroom in Pindes Hill, it was a guest room at the villa of the damned. I should reach out to Rob Zombie or John Carpenter to see if they’d like to make a horror movie based on my life. The smell of lemon blossoms and water moved over me, the windows and patio doors open. Had they been yesterday? Sitting up, I glanced around Mama’s safflower room. My bags sat just inside the door, all neatly lined up tallest to smallest. Cool. Looked like Giada and Alessio’s grandson had toted them all up that incredibly large staircase. I’d make sure to tip him well for his trouble. Right now, though, I needed to get in touch with the world—aka my followers—and let them know I was alive and in the land of fine wine and gelato.
I dug my phone out of the tangle of covers, swiped it open, pressed my thumb to the reader, and wet my lips. Mm, some coffee with heavy cream and sugar sounded good. Maybe they had a bell to pull? I did a quick scan but found no bellpull. Knowing Great-aunt Ginerva, she probs was in cahoots with my father to take away all the little joys in my life. And the big ones. God, woe is fucking me. I tried to connect to the internet but didn’t have the password. Oh my fucking God, how was this my life right now?!
Lacking coffee and the world wide web, with a sigh worthy of Greta Garbo, I kicked the covers until I had expended my rage on the bedding. Truly I think I was a golden age actress in a previous life. What else could account for my love of corsets and vests, steamer trunks, and Cary Grant? Huffing with flair, I slapped my feet to the cool tile floor and heard a soft meow. My sight darted about the room, finally finding the feline reclining on my patio. Her gray fur looked lavender in the morning sun. The cat didn’t get up as I padded over. She rolled to her back and made air biscuits with her front paws. Purrs floated up. I crouched down to tickle her tummy.
“Good morning,” I whispered, smiling down at the kitty. “Where did you come from?” I gave her a chin scratch and then rose, planting my hands on my hips to see if she had climbed up a tree to bask on my patio. I couldn’t picture Ginerva having an animal in the house.
Wow. My eyes roamed over the narrow but resplendent garden at the rear of the villa, the sun’s rays glinting off the Arno about a hundred or so feet away. I gazed upon a classic Italianate garden with vibrant flowers, boxwood hedges—a few sculpted into topiaries of swans—as well as the always present olive and lemon trees. There were statues tucked in among the flowers and herbs, mostly of saints or the Virgin but a few looked to be maidens with veils. The garden hummed with life. The lines were hard and precise, and it was obvious that someone did daily upkeep on the rectangular bit of land. In a shady corner, not far from the river, was a table and chairs with a small fountain that burbled. I could see a short dock from where I stood, just the tip and the nose of a dark blue rowboat. No, it was one of those sleek shells that rowers used. Yes, that was right. I patted myself mentally on the back. See, I knew sport. Then, out of nowhere, a man appeared under a pergola heavy with dangling grape vines.
The garden paled in comparison to this man. I rubbed my eyes, sure I was having some sort of visual spasm. Either that or I was still in bed dreaming of a water god leaving the river to come and have his way with me as gods were known to do. Yes, I had to be dreaming. No way was this stunning man a reality. He was quite tall, having to duck to clear the beams of the pergola. He was wearing tight red workout shorts, socks and sneakers, and a green tee hung around his thick neck. The man was cut. I mean, holy hell. It was like gazing at Michelangelo’s David, for he was sheer masculine perfection. His hair was wet, ebony black, and his jaw coated with new whiskers. His chest had a fine covering of dark hair forming a tasty treasure trail that snuck down into his form-fitting shorts.
