14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

A s to be expected, I missed the following two days of the congress due to being sick beyond words. Hungover didn't even begin to touch on how miserable I was. I'd have sworn to God that I'd had food poisoning, but Ricardo assured me that no one else who had eaten at the restaurant across the street had fallen ill, he had checked, so that meant I was just a sissy boots.

"Ugh, boots," I murmured on the way home in the back of my aunt's Bentley.

"Did you forget boots, Signor Arlo?" Alessio softly asked. My headache was gone, mercifully, but my stomach was still tender. Also, my heart ached like a rotten tooth over the fact that Donvino had now seriously ghosted me. Bianca, who was still talking to me, thank all the gods, had informed me that her cousin was hurt over my being out with Ricardo. Or that was what he said was wrong. She suspected that was part of it, something she thought was cute, but he was also stinging from not doing well in the rowing competition. His scull, according to her, was too old to compete against the newer versions. I had to take her word for it as I had zero knowledge of rowing boat design improvements over the years.

So here I sat with a tender tum-tum, still looking pale, blanking on the beauty that was the Tuscan countryside as we rolled homeward. While it was kind of flattering that Donvino was jealous, it was also not, and somehow he had to come to realize that he was just as appealing as Ricardo, even more so to me.

The ride home was quiet. I napped a bit to try to rest my whirling thoughts. When we arrived at the villa around noon, I stood in the driveway and stared at my trunks, waiting for someone to tote them inside. While I adored the aesthetic of travel trunks logistically, if one wasn't tipping someone else to carry the heavy bitches around they were rather cumbersome.

"I'll see if Donvino is around to help," I told Alessio. So inside I went, in search of Donvino who, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be found. He'd not spoken to me since the call at Boots so why would the big lug be here to welcome me home? I'd find him, though. He couldn't avoid me forever. And we would talk and work things out. I could be as tenacious as a terrier when I put my mind to it, and my mind was firmly put.

"Signora would like to speak to you outside, please." Giada met me in the foyer. "She is just come down from her nap," she informed me as I lingered on the grand staircase.

"Grazie," I replied, heading outside instead of upstairs, to find my great-aunt resting under the pergola, her feet on a footstool, and bright yellow compression stockings on her calves. She looked rested and waved me over to sit at the table with her. "I'm glad to see you have your socks on," I said as I poured myself some lemonade to sip on, hoping it would settle my stomach.

"They are ugly as all the great sins," she replied, passing me a small dish of limes to add to my cold drink. "I'm disappointed that you did not partake in the congress."

"I was there for day one." I sniffed, giving the lime wedge a squeeze. Lucia ran past with a mole in her mouth, darting under a bush with white flowers.

"Hm, yes, and then spent the other two days in your hotel bed. Ricardo informed me that you were sickly from overindulging in alcohol." Her scalding glare over the top of her glasses as they rested on her nose cut deep. "That is unacceptable behavior from the man who will take over this company. People at that club saw you, Arlo." I shrugged. Her lips flattened. "Arlo, acting out like this is part of the reason that you were sent to me. It had seemed as if you were making progress, but then you make a fool of yourself like this and in front of Ricardo Martinelli, of all people!"

"Ricardo was more than understanding. I drank a little too much. It happens. Why is every little thing such a major shitstorm for you and Dad? Did you never get tipsy when you were younger?"

"Tipsy? Yes. Vomiting on the undersecretary of agriculture? Absolutely not. Back when I was a young woman, we were expected to act with decorum. Something that this generation has no grasp of."

"Yeah, okay, well, maybe I was upset over something. Did that ever occur to you?!"

"Arlo, please lower your voice. Whatever could make you so upset that you act so appallingly?"

I obviously couldn't say that my emotions for Donvino had led me to try to drown myself in booze. I could lay out some other truths, though.

"Maybe I was upset over the fact that you coerced me into going to that stupid congress in the first place and then, when that wasn't quite enough manipulation, you arranged for Ricardo to know my every move. Stop trying to set me up with that man. I am not interested in him that way! And for the final time, I do not want to be an olive farmer or the CEO of the company. Why the hell can't you and Dad just let me live the life that I want to live?!"

I shot to my feet, leaving my drink untouched on the table, and stormed inside. My phone buzzed as I hit the shady interior of the villa. A short text from Bianca saying that the bus was nearly ready, but she could use some help to install the new seats. I informed her I would be there in fifteen. I roared out of the villa in my car, leaving a cloud of oily smoke and two fucking steamer trunks in the rearview.

***

Bianca met me around back, her coveralls dangling off one shoulder as her left arm was in a sling.

"Holy crapinski, what happened?" I asked, leaping out of my darling little car to jog over to where she was resting beside the van. A van that still looked rough on the outside but was close to being ready to transport workers mechanically.

"I tripped over a fender chasing that bastard!" She pointed at the gander waddling by with his ladies nibbling on the grass behind him. She spat out several violent sounding things then blew out a breath that moved some loose black hair from her brow. "Stupid bird. He is very much aggressive now. One of the geese is on a nest near the barn, and we think she has new goslings, so anytime we go near, he is attacking."

"Oh well, that's not good, but it is kind of good, if that makes sense. Did you break it?"

I watched it eyeballing me, so I flipped the bird the bird. He hissed at me but didn't come charging in for another calf pinch.

"Sì, yes, good and bad. No, just sprained bad. Which is why I need help with the new seats." She jerked her dirty chin at ten newer than the old benches that she'd torn out of the minibus. "They aren't heavy, so you can help."

"Thanks for calling me a weakling," I teased, laughing aloud when her mouth fell open. "I'm kidding. I know I'm not a big brute like Donvino." Even mentioning his name made my heart ache. "Is he here today?" She shook her head, her white teeth capturing her lower lip. "He hates me for some reason!"

"No, no, he does not hate you, he is just…" She motioned me over to the new used benches sitting in the shade. After she was seated, I flopped down beside her. "Donvino is having a bad time. He is losing his competitions because he is using an old scull, you know?" I nodded. "They are too much money for him to replace, so he is not making his dreams come true."

I recalled the trunk sitting in bits on my bedroom floor. "Yeah, I can relate."

"You both are peas in pods. Pouty over things that you hoped for, then pouty over each other. He is crazy for you, Arlo."

The chickens darted past. And a fat red hen with a grasshopper in her beak being pursued by her sisters. The rooster trotted along at the rear of the pack, long tail feathers flying, as he hurried to keep his harem in sight.

"Couldn't prove it by me," I huffed, tossing my shoulders back into the seat. "He's not speaking to me and I don't have a clue as to why."

She turned on the bench, the hot dry wind tugging on some loose strands of her hair, her expression of utter exasperation. Using her uninjured hand, she flicked my forehead.

"Hey!" I yelped.

"Stupid, you men are stupid. Arlo, he is feeling poor and then he sees you on Instagram with a rich, older man dancing at a club in Venice." I frowned at the ground. "Then when he calls you for talking about his things, you are drunk with the undersecretary. He is hurt and scared and not knowing what to do because he is not good with his emotions for men. For you!" She flicked my forehead again. I moved out of her reach, rubbing my brow, lost in thought.

"So I'm not supposed to go out and have fun with anyone other than him? That sounds a bit controlling, to be honest."

A long string of Italian flowed out of her. I did pick out a few words, such as pig, head, and cabbage. Maybe cabbage? No, surely not.

"You men have cabbage for brains," she snapped.

Okay, so it was cabbage. Go me! "He is jealous, yes, because he feels strong for you and this has never happened for him before." She tucked some hair behind her tiny ear. "He's so…what is that term…self-conceited. No, uhm, he's self-doubtful. Not thinking that he's worthy of you."

"Oh, he's got low self-esteem," I said, lowering my hand to my thigh.

"Yes, sorry for my English."

"No, hey, your English is really good! Did you learn working in the city like Donvino did?"

A bittersweet look swept over her lovely face. "That is not how I learned to speak it, no, I learned from running away to America to marry an Air Force man at eighteen."

"Oh wow, that's not at all what I expected to hear. What happened with your fly boy?"

She sighed, her sight lifting to the clouds. "It crashed like a plane with no propellers. He was only two years older than me, and I was so in love. I was pregnant soon, and he was doing the good thing to take me to America with him when he left. Papà, he was not happy with me having a baby, but I was over fourteen—the age here in Italy when it is okay to be with someone for sex—and I was near eighteen by just one month. So, I left when I was eighteen and we got married. I flew to America to be with him and then lost the baby four weeks later."

I grabbed her petite hands, hands covered in dirt and grease, and gave them a squeeze. "Bianca, I am so sorry."

"Yes, me too. Then things went bad for us. I stayed in America, at an Air Force base in Colorado with him, for two years, and we tried to make things good for us, but in the end, I longed for home and he was tired of me complaining about it, so we split. It was so cold there and I didn't know anyone. I hated it. So, I come back to Florence with a little money that he gave me for a goodbye gift, and I spend it on an auto mechanic schooling. Now I am making money enough to help out Papà and will one day have a garage right over there." She pointed to where the geese were dabbling about in the pig's water trough.

"When you have your garage, I'll only allow you to work on my sweet baby," I informed her with a nod afterward to show that I meant it. She gave me a warm smile, as bright as the scorching sun overhead.

"You are kind, but we need to talk of you and Donvino." She deftly led us back to a discussion I was hoping to avoid. Now that I looked through it via a different lens, I could see that my painting the town red with Ricardo could be a poke in the eye to a man who had just lost a race due to being a serf among rowing royalty. "Do you still like my cousin?"

"Yes, so much!" That burst free, but there was no point in denying it. There was only me, Bianca, and the various farm critters back here. "I truly do, but I just don't know what to do to get him to speak to me."

"That is rough one." She tapped her chin, deep in thought. "What a pity he is home today with a day off from work sulking in his apartment all alone." She stared at me. I stared back.

"What?" I asked.

More Italian cabbage references. "Arlo, he is alone all day at home. Maybe you go to him after we get the seats in the minivan and talk to him?"

"Oh, okay, yeah, that's a good idea. Do not flick me."

She giggled and poked me instead. If this was what having a good gal pal was like, I was kind of enjoying it. I could do this. I could drive into Florence alone—GULP—and have a long sit down with Donvino. Clear the air as they say. Yeah, that was totally doable. But first, we had seats to maneuver into a small van. Lots of pivoting and grunting and sweat would be involved. The life of a working man was incredibly clammy and grimy. Maybe someday I would learn to wear work clothes—whatever they were—to do manual labor instead of silk vests and Prada cotton Bahama shorts.