13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

O kay, my great-aunt was right. Venice was a gorgeous place.

I'd been here for a day and already had fallen under its spell. The hotel that was hosting the Modern Italy Organic Farming Congress was spectacular. It sat right on a waterway. My room was on the second floor, and the view of the gondolas slowly moving past was incredibly romantic. Ginerva had been right about that as well. If only Donvino were here. We could be just like the many couples that were being poled down the canal. The bells of a church built in the 1500s had woken me this morning as had the arrival of breakfast delivered by a lovely young man in a black and red uniform.

I had an hour or two before I had to be at the conference room downstairs, so I lingered over my eggs benedict, snapping pictures of myself and sending them to my lover. I took one that was quite scandalous. Wearing only a slinky robe, I bared a shoulder as well as my tiny belly button and giggled madly when I sent it to him. Surely, his big brown eyes would bug out when he opens his messages. He'd not replied yet, but I expected that since today was the day of the rowing competition and he and his cousin were en route to Pisa.

The air off the canal was passable this morning, although there had been a stronger smell late in the day yesterday when I'd arrived. The brackish water seemed to take on an odor as the heat and humidity climbed, or so the desk clerk had told me. He also had gaped at my two trunks as he rang for a bellhop. They were lovely specimens, filled with my necessities. I made a vow as I lingered just inside the open doors of my magnificent room that I would take time to refit my lone trunk. I did have a few pennies to my name now. The influx of working man wages of six hundred euros before taxes was helpful. Nothing like I was used to having in my account, and after a rather rash purchase of a new Mohair Gucci vest that set me back to zero, I'd been doing rather well. I was far from the wealthy playboy who had stepped on that plane to Florence, but I was managing. Not to say it was fun managing, but I was independent. Sort of.

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 Se?orina 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."

"You are quite welcome. So, let us see what they are offering for breakfast," he said, his dark eyes alive with good humor. I eased back into my seat, feeling that we had gotten things settled between us, and read over the menu. After making my choice—a fresh fruit and yogurt plate—we had a nice chat about what to expect at this congress, the state of Italian wineries, and the impact of global warming on our crops. He was incredibly smart, as he would have to be obvs, and laid out complex things in a way that a dummy who had dropped out of college could understand. The food arrived in a timely manner and was delicious. I checked my phone throughout the meal on the sly, hoping Ricardo wouldn't notice. Nothing yet from Donvino or Bianca or my scheming aunt. I sent out more texts after we were done eating, then allowed Ricardo to escort me to the conference room, his laughter over a quip that I made floating down the ornate corridors.

The rest of the day was boring as fuck. It started off with handshakes, photos out the ass, and nodding along as people peppered me with Italian that my meager knowledge of the language had no chance of grasping. Ricardo translated when he was beside me, but when he was called off to speak to some lady, I floundered. Fortunately, I was good at social media, so I shared pictures of me with everyone, adding hashtags and then tagging Bonetti Farms Olive Oil so that the world—and dear old Dad—could see that I was being a good little corporate puppet.

Honestly, eight hours of talk about nothing but agriculture was the worst. I dozed off several times, coming awake when Ricardo would touch my knee or cough into his hand. We were seated at a large round table, one that held the heads of several major Italian food growers and exporters, so nodding off as some old man with a paunch droned on about how to counter the drought was rude, but for shit's sake, dude, spice it up.

There was an hour break for lunch that Ricardo and I used to leave the hotel to get some fresh air. He led me across a lovely arched bridge to a tiny bistro that served the best fettuccine with clam sauce I had ever tasted. He gossiped about the people at the congress, telling me salacious tidbits that made me choke on my pasta several times.

As we were sipping some coffee after dessert, my phone buzzed. I leapt on it like a cat pouncing on a crippled mouse. The text was from Bianca.

He did not place. ~ B

"Well shit," I frowned at the message, then blew out a long, sad breath. A gondola gracefully moved past along the canal a few feet from our table. The couple was older, mid-fifties, and seemed to be snapping images of everyone and everything.

"Is everything all right?" Ricardo asked. "I hope your aunt is well?"

"Oh, I'm sure she is." I hit Bianca back then sent a fast note to Donvino saying how sad I was that he didn't do well and that I wished I were there to kiss away the sting. "It's a friend of mine." I put my phone face down on the table to find Ricardo watching me with concern. "He was running a race in his boat, well, it's a scull actually, but he didn't even place."

"Ah that is too bad. I'm sure he will do better at his next competition," he said, taking the check from the waiter before I could even blink. He signed the form, slid his card back into his leather wallet, and rose. "Come, let us make our way back. I would hate to be late and miss Signor Brigante's speech on digital agriculture."

I dabbed at my lips, dropped the napkin on the table, and looked Ricardo right in the eye.

"Are you being serious right now?" It was hard to tell.

"Actually, yes, I am. You'll find it fascinating, Arlo, I'm sure. And if you do not, I will treat you to a night on the town to make up for four hours of boredom. Does that sound fair?"

"As long as we go somewhere where the median age of the patrons isn't eighty, then yes, that's a deal." We shook on it, he smiled, and we made our way back to the hotel where, as I suspected, I spent four more hours bored senseless waiting for my aunt and my lover to contact me.

Neither did, and after sending out more texts that went unread, I worked myself into a fine snit that only ended at nine that night when Ricardo escorted me into a gay club. Perhaps it was a bad call to go out when I was feeling snippy and downcast. Getting hammered would help nothing, but as we jumped out of his hyper-luxurious SUV leaving his driver to fight with Saturday night traffic, I gazed skyward. The stars were freshly risen, and the narrow street had been decorated with white strings of lights draped from several windows, adding even more bits of light to the evening.

"In here," Ricardo called, reaching out to place his hand on the small of my back. He'd changed into a short-sleeved pink paisley tribal print shirt that he had paired with sleek tan jeans. A bold gold watch was all the jewelry he had worn, whereas I had loaded on the bangles and baubles. Probably because I was feeling abandoned by Donvino, who had yet to reply to the twenty texts I'd shot him. My great-aunt had deigned to answer me with a curt little ‘We will talk in person' that made me even more tiffy. So yeah, I'd gone rather femme boy tonight with an orchid and gold corset snugged tightly, a white shirt underneath, and billowy orchid pants with chunky heels. I'd lined my eyes with purple liner, applied lip gloss, and spiked my hair into a madcap design. Ricardo had given me one long look when I'd met him in the hallway outside our rooms, smiled in wonder, and leaned in to kiss my cheek.

I had to give him credit, he fucking owned his queerness. Something that a certain someone who was now ghosting me wasn't able to do. Instantly, I felt bad for comparing the two men. I checked my phone as we slipped off the street into Cocktail di Stivali, which Ricardo had translated on the ride over as Boots Cocktails. Stepping into the club, I could see why it was named that. Hundreds of boots hung from the ceiling, the drinks were served in plastic boots, and the walls were covered with images of famous men in boots. The club was quite packed, but we were taken to a small table in the corner beside a crowded dance floor.

"This is awesome," I shouted to Ricardo, sitting down carefully as I was cinched tightly. A server appeared with two beautiful cocktails. "Now that's service!"

Ricardo grinned, then moved his chair closer so we could talk without shouting. "I hope you don't mind that I called ahead. I know the owner well and wanted to ensure you had a good time tonight, given that your face has been sad all day over your phone."

I forced a smile as I lifted my drink, a glorious light green drink with a cherry and lemon on a cocktail skewer and a paper straw with boots printed on it.

"Thank you. It's been hard adjusting to a strange country, and then when I thought I made a friend, it turned out that perhaps I didn't." It was foolish of me to feel this way, but doubts about that night in Donvino's apartment had started to creep in. Was he done with me now that we'd fucked? Wouldn't have been the first time. What made this worse was that I'd had—still had—some pretty strong feelings for the man. Stupid of me, I know. "Let's not talk about him. Let's enjoy this…what are they?"

"Tokyo Iced Tea," he replied, lifting his glass to tap mine. "They're very tasty but can pack a kick like a mule. Perhaps just sip as you ate very little today."

"Oh, I'll be fine," I said and took a sip. Wow, it did have a kick, but it was super tasty. "I like it!"

"Good, I wasn't sure, but it seemed like a cocktail you might like. There are some potent ingredients such as rum, tequila, and vodka, so pace yourself, okay?"

"Okay!"

I did not pace. I tossed down two in rapid succession, the warm buzz spreading out from my empty tummy—one could not cinch to the gods and eat—as I found the pull of the thumping dance music calling me.

"What is this song?!" I yelled as my chair suddenly felt wobbly. The server brought me my third cocktail while Ricardo was nursing his first. Silly man, how did he plan to feel great if he didn't get busy drinking? His reply was in Italian. Meant nothing, but man did the thumping bass mean everything. I glanced around. Purple and green lights rolled over the bouncing crowd. I took two big sips of my drink, burped subtly, and then discovered I could sit no longer.

"Dance with me!" I shouted and shot to my heels, my chair tumbling over. "Oops." I giggled. Ricardo hurried to right my seat and allowed me to drag him to the dance floor. It's amazing how alcohol and music can make you forget being ignored. For a good thirty minutes, I kept Ricardo on the floor, moving about in circles, leaping up and down more than actually dancing. We finally took a break when I stumbled into some stranger, my head feeling quite airy as my feet tangled.

"Time for a break," Ricardo shouted beside my ear, using his hands on my shoulders to steer me back to our table. "No, no, I think you should…" Whatever else he said was lost in the din as I fell on my drink, parched beyond belief, and emptied the glass in one long pull. "Okay, I think we should find you some food and water. Sit down, please, and I will dash to the restaurant across the street to find you something to eat. No, no arguments. Loosen that lovely corset. You are eating. I will be back."

He ran a hand over my sweaty neck and then disappeared into the throngs, stopping to speak to our server on the way out. Hmm, was he ordering me another drink? I hoped so, I was incredibly thirty. Wait, no, thirty? No way was I thirty! I started to giggle madly at myself, saw his drink sitting there all alone and watery, so I slammed that down. The server appeared with bottles of water.

"No, no, another Tee Kay Oh tea for me!" I argued as our empties were taken away. The server said something in Italian, something that went with an incredibly sorry sort of expression before heading back into the crowds. Ugh, stupid. I wobbled to my feet, felt my phone vibrate in my front pocket, listed right a bit, and then sat back down with a thump that rattled my fillings. A sour belch rose up. I swallowed something nasty back down, fished out my phone, and squinted at the screen. Oh. Oh ho! Well, look who finally decided to reply to my texts and voice messages. Mr. Donvino the Rower Man. Heartbreaker. I slowly got to my feet, phone still buzzing with the incoming call, and made my way to…

Where was I going? Who knows? I sat down on a pink sofa next to some girls who were talking to each other in Italian. Why on earth was everyone in this country speaking Italian? Oh. Right. I snorted at myself, tipping to the right to rest my head on the arm of the couch before answering the call. My sight lingered on a video screen playing the video that went with the current song that was playing. Babies were dancing. That was odd. Babies couldn't dance, they could barely walk, I thought as I placed my phone to my ear.

"Hello, Signor Ghost," I shouted into the Android as I brought my feet up on the sofa. One of the girls slapped them off and shouted at me before stalking off hand-in-hand with her girlfriend. Whatever. I hoisted my boots back onto the couch. "Can you hear me over there in ghost world?"

"What are…where are you?" Donvino asked, his tone a little cranky.

"Where am I?" I managed to sit up. The room spun. The dancing babies now had fur. What the hell kind of acid trip was the video director for this song on?! "Where are you, Signor Ghostly Ghost?"

"I'm at work."

"Oh. Okay. So go work. I'm here," I said, then swung the phone in a sloppy circle to show him the club. Was this a video call? Oh well. "I'm here having fun because you ignored me all day long you ghosted me all day and…and now I don't even care because I had iced teas from Tokyo and they were good." I belched loudly. In his ear. Good. "Did you see my texts? There were twenty. Twenty!" I held up five fingers. "And there they sat. Bianca only replied to me once." I held up four fingers. The babies on the screen now had sunglasses. Oh shit, this was really weird. Had someone slipped mushroom sauce into my green drink? No, mushroom sauce was something that was served on spaghetti. Mm, spaghetti. That sounded good. I hoped Ricardo brought me spaghetti. "I'm hungry."

"No, you are drunk." He sighed and muttered something to someone on his end. "My phone was low on battery all day. And I was mad at not doing well, so I stayed away from talking to you because you are sensitive."

"I am so not sensitive! I'm a brick house. Huff and puff and…oh! Here's Ricardo with some food. Say hi Ricardo!" I shoved the phone in the undersecretary's handsome face. He took it, spoke to Donvino, and ended the call.

"Your friend sounded angry," he said, handing me the takeout container he'd fetched. What a nice guy. "He called me a creeper."

"Creeper and Ghost. I think that could be…" I flipped open the box and inside sat a fat serving of spaghetti. My eyes filled. I looked over at Ricardo who, once he saw my watery eyes, looked less stressed and more concerned. "I wanted spaghetti so much. All day I wanted spaghetti and for Donvino to call me back and he never did because no one ever calls me back."

I cried into my spaghetti as I forked wads of pasta into my face. Ricardo rubbed my back, clearly lost as to what to do for this inebriated idiot he'd taken out for a drink. I gorged about a pound of pasta, the plastic forkfuls bowing under the weight, sat back and sighed, and then felt it all coming back up. Somehow, I managed to turn my head to avoid my lovely corset. I didn't quite miss my escort's lap, though.

Moral of the story: never mix dejection, Tokyo Iced Teas, and spaghetti with meat sauce. It's not a pretty combination, especially when it comes back up on paisley.