3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

T he flight to Florence was long, tiring, and filled with people.

I was seated next to an older man, a pretty cool dude, who was returning to Ghana from a trip to the States. He slept the entire time other than to wake up for food. I envied him for that rest. My mind was too wired—Red Bull on an empty stomach will get your synapses firing—to allow me to close my eyes. My head was full of bumbling thoughts that bounced off each other like demonic bumper cars, one sending the other flying at the impact.

The food was meh. I mean, I guess I should be thankful that Dad forked out the cash for a decent seat, of course not in first class, but not crammed into the back with families toting cranky kids with poopy diapers and snotty noses. I'd have preferred the Bonetti Lear, obviously, but such things were now not part of my repertoire. To be honest, sitting here next to Sleeping Ghana Dude while an old Denzel Washington flick played, my earbuds were in, but my brain was blanking out the dialog. My life as I had known it was no more. In the flick of an uncaring hand, my father had banished his only child to a foreign country to live with an evil old woman with a cane. No one spoke English, or I doubted they did, and I'd not been there in forever. Father visited several times a year, but I kept a wide berth from Villa de Wicked Gorgon. Now, in order to hopefully return to my previous lifestyle, I was going to have to tote, scrub, and pick olives in the blazing sun.

Hashtag Arlo the newest Disney Princess.

It was just too much to bear, really, and so when the lights went down in the plane I let the tears flow as Denzel played the living hell out of his part as an airline pilot with addiction issues. When the worst of the carrying jag ended, I unbuckled my seatbelt, wiggled into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. The room was cramped, nothing at all like the spacious baths on the Bonetti jets. Everything about this flight was depressing as was my outlook. Things could honestly not be much worse. Feeling lost, scared, and hurt most of all, I flipped the seat down on the toilet and sat, crossing my legs and then lifting my phone from my vest pocket.

"Hey, friends, so this is my life right now." I panned the toilet to show my followers just what I was experiencing and then turned the camera back to my pitiful face. "I've been exiled from the States to my evil, ancient aunt's house. I'm not sure how the Wi-Fi will be because she is so old she probably uses Morse code to—"

The plane rumbled as if running over potholes in the sky. One strong bounce nearly flung me from the crapper. I threw out a hand to steady myself as a series of pings and bing-bongs filled the cabin.

"Hello, passengers, this is the pilot. We're experiencing some rather rowdy turbulence so all passengers are asked to remain in their seats with their seatbelts fastened. Flight staff will also be seated until things calm back down. Thank you."

"Well fuck."

We hit some pretty nasty air pockets then. I yelped and stumbled out of the bathroom. A flight attendant who was helping an old lady get her belt fastened glared at me and then pointed me to my seat with undue haste. Ghana Man had been jostled from his slumber, I noted, when I flopped down into my narrow seat and hurried to buckle up.

"Been a long time since I had such a bumpy ride," he said and fell back asleep as if we weren't being thrown around like Weebles in a plastic pull-along airplane.

I'd had a Weeble Wobble plane when I was younger. Mom used to play with me on the floor of my nursery for hours, pretending we were the Weebles flying to magical, fantastical places. Places with dragons and elves, monsters and heroes, and of course, pirate islands. After a rather nasty jounce up and down, I closed my eyes, cursed my father for making me ride on a packed plane over rough skies, and let my memories of my mother soothe me as the plane bounced along. Fucking sky potholes. Nothing about this trip was ever going to be enjoyable. I might as well join a nunnery upon landing and just be done with it. I'd seen The Sound of Music. I could be Maria. Oh, wait, that was Austria and not Italy. Well, I could be Maria in Italy. But that would involve being a nanny for a slew of kids. No thanks, although I was always up for a good-looking older man with a military past. Or a goatherder. I wasn't picky. This was why I was on this damn plane to begin with. Maybe I needed to reevaluate the men I hooked up with?

No, that was just silly. This was all my father's fault. I nodded and gulped as we thudded along on God's heavenly rumble strips.

***

The airport in Florence was small, that's for sure, but charming in a way that most of the mega airports lacked. Exhausted beyond all reason, I set off to find my bags. I needed a cooling mask on my puffy face stat. Falling into the small group of people who didn't understand Italian and so had to stand under signs trying to decipher where to go, I was approached by an older gentleman with silver hair, a mustache that looked like a Muppet sitting on his upper lip and wearing a dark blue uniform from a 1950s hotel. No shit, the old guy looked like a bellhop but a super elderly one that couldn't tote a toothbrush let alone the several bags I had hurried to pack.

"You Se?or Arlo?" he asked, the sign in his hand filled with scribble. I could make out Mr. Bonetti and the word passaggio, which I took to mean passage. He was my passage. Oh, my ride. Cool.

"Yes, oh, I mean, sì, I'm Mr. Arlo. And you are?" I moved to the side to let a chubby woman with an overpacked carry-on hustle past me. Guess she had important places to be. Me? I was just slogging slowly to a dismal year spent stomping olives in vats. Or did they only do that to grapes? I was so lost…

"Alessio, I am Signora Bonetti's driver." He smiled, the thick white muzzy burying his nostrils. "Come to car now. We are late."

"Yeah, there was something about winds making it hard to land. They wanted to send us to Pisa but then changed their minds, but we circled around forever. I don't know. This whole flight has been a nightmare."

"Ah, I see. We must go. Signora Bonetti is not liking tardy people."

"Well, Signora Bonetti can take it up with the gods of wind, whoever they might be."

"Anemoi," he replied as he nervously glanced at his wristwatch. The crush of passengers departing had moved past us, some leaving to get rides, some off to find their luggage.

"No, not those little stinging things on coral reefs. Wind gods." He stared at me. I made wavy motions with my arms as I made whooshing wind sounds. I clipped some dude darting past. "Sorry."

Random Dude replied in Italian. It didn't sound like a pleasant response. Maybe, in retrospect of what had taken place the past three days, I should have made an effort to learn Italian at home. Mama had begun to teach me her native French, but then she got sick and died, and Dad…well, who had time to sit down with their child and pass along a new language? Not Tommaso Bonetti. Making more money was more important. Whatever. I could manage for a year. That was why they had translator apps on cell phones.

"Luggage?" Alessio asked as I stared at Random Dude's back.

"Right, yeah, I have a few bags." With that, I led Alessio to baggage claim where my eight suitcases were circling around the belt like lost sheep. I'd wanted to bring my steamer trunks as they were Arlo all over, but the airlines seemed to have an issue with them for some reason, something about them being overly large and therefore I would need to pay like $200 for each of them. Totally ludicrous if you asked me. See, if my father had allowed me to fly on our private jet, none of this barbarism would have taken place. I mean, how totally rude had it been of the airline agent to ask if steamer trunks went out with the Titanic when I had called? Totally gauche. I'd informed him that only the chicest people traveled with trunks and they were the out-of-date ones for making the elite pay more for a simple steamer trunk. To which he told me that I could pay two grand or I could use suitcases like everyone else born after 1890 before he hung up on me. Honestly, what has happened to customer service?

"Okay those dark plum ones are mine," I announced and tugged out my phone to film more of the horror of my life for my followers. When I tried to access my data, I was told my account had been suspended. My father. Gods damn it! I then had a small meltdown, and as much as it pained me, I hooked up to the airport internet. Good Lord, the humiliation of it all. After I was done stamping my little boots, I shook off the injustice, held up my phone to catch my best angle, and began rambling about how desperate I was to get to the villa and have a cocktail. "Oh, and this charming gent is Alessio, my great-aunt Ginerva's driver. He is very cute and polite."

When I turned to find Alessio, who I assumed had by now loaded my bags onto a trolley, I found him poking buttons on a vending machine, my bags still rolling along.

"Alessio, excuse me, but the bags?" I called, pausing the video, as I motioned my free hand to the conveyer belt.

"My lumbago is big bad," he replied as a candy bar thudded down into the holding bin. Lumbago? What the hell was lumbago? "Signora Bonetti gets mad for tardy people."

With a glorious huff, I went off to find a trolley and tossed each bag onto it while Alessio stood there chewing on his Kinder Beuno as I did all the heavy lifting. Totally fine. The man was old with a bad lumbago, but it was just another steaming pile of humiliation heaped onto the already gigantic mountain of chagrin Arlo Bonetti was living.

"I'm ready," I announced as I fought to catch my breath. Alessio nodded and led me out of the airport. The humidity was akin to getting smacked in the face with three-day-old trout. The sun was brilliant, and the parking lot was filled with Florentines and tourists being greeted by loved ones. And here I was pushing my own trolley behind a man I had just met that had hazelnut filling in his madcap mustache.

There were two police officers on duty, stunning men they were, young and fit, in uniforms that made them look as edible as the candy Alessio had purchased. I threw them a wink. They both looked at me as if I had stepped out of a flying saucer. Guess they weren't used to seeing men of my gravitas and silken vests exiting the terminal.

"Please tell me the car you came in can carry all of my bags," I wheezed as I shoved and tugged the trolley along, sweat staining my armpits I was certain.

"Oh sì, the car is big," Alessio called over his shoulder and then waved at a shiny black and white Bentley parked nearby.

"Is this the Grand Countess of Grantham's car?" I tossed out, wrestling a trolley wheel out of a pothole.

"No, is Signora Bonetti's car."

"I was making a…it's not important." Fifteen long minutes in the ghastly heat trying to get all my bags into the 1950 MK VI four-door, I was done in and ready to weep into my hankie. Alessio was trained well enough to hold the front passenger side door open for me. "Grazie," I panted as I fell into the seat, my bags tidily arranged in ways that would make a TETRIS fan jealous. The interior of the car was spotless, the wood patina glowing, the leather seats soft and supple. There was a sunroof open to allow more air into the lumbering beast of a car. I sank back into the seat, jet-lagged and soaked with sweat, and had to search for a seatbelt.

"Signora install them for safety," Alessio informed me as he rolled the Bentley over and peeled out of the parking lot. I grasped the seat, eyes round, and was given a crash course in driving in Florence. It was an experience that I would never forget. Someone would have to forcibly remove my fingers from the upholstery when we got to the villa—if we lived that long. I was in too much of a panic to see much of the city other than tall tan buildings with open windows, shutters of various shades, and motorbikes. So many motorbikes.

Seemingly, or so it appeared to me as I clung to the front seat like a terrified cat, motorbikes in Italy had no laws to abide by. Nor did pedestrians. People just stepped out in front of you, assuming you would stop, and the motorbikes flew past in every which direction. I tried to drink the beauty of Florence, but there was no way to do so when my sight was locked on the front bumper of the Bentley. Surely we would run over an old woman or a motorcycle soon and somehow, inevitably, it would be my fault.

"Is traffic always—" We peeled around a corner, four men dashed out in front of us from a local bar, and proceeded to slap the hood of the Bentley in passing. Alessio shouted at them. They shouted back. Fingers were lifted into the air in a gesture that even a Yank like me could translate without an app. Then, as if nothing had taken place, off we went again. "Is traffic always like this?"

"No, sometimes is bad," Alessio replied, pulling out onto a tree-lined street in front of two girls on scooters. They swerved around us, never losing a beat of their conversation. I nearly swallowed my tongue. The streets were so narrow there were spots where I was sure the old beast of a car would get wedged in, but somehow Alessio moved through the chaos of parked cars and madcap motorbikes as if it were second nature. To him, it was just another day in the life. To me, it was a nerve-racking end to a long, difficult journey. My lower lip was trembling by the time we rolled up to an old-fashioned gate that grandly rested in between tall, tan stucco walls coated with ivy and bright pink flowers.

I whispered a thanks to the tiny statue of Mary resting in an alcove beside the keypad. It was easy to find the Virgin if you needed her help, for I had seen dozens of these street shrines—most of them blurs of pristine statues, flowers, and candles as Alessio flew past them—on our trip from the airport to home. Home. Not my home. Well. It was, but not. I would not home without a snit or ten, that was factual. Thankfully, we moved out of the crush of the city, the Arno River running along beside us, as we made our way east for just a few miles.

"Is this it?" I asked, tugging my nails from the fabric, my stomach ready to bring up the spareribs I'd had on the flight. "Are we safe? Please tell me that we don't have to go back out onto those streets."

Alessio studied me closely as the old gates clattered open. "This is it," he reassured me, easing the car through the tapered, curving drive. "Signora is waiting."

"Noted." Did he think I was going to bolt from the car to escape my punishment? Did he even know about the fellatio fiasco? I hoped not. Alessio seemed cool in the way that old duffers are cool. "As soon as we get to the…wow."

We eased into a rich, flowery garden area, the drive splitting the massive flowering rose bushes, lemon trees in terracotta vases, and towering wisteria that invited a person to linger under their sweeping branches. The trellis that held the still vibrant climbing plants reminded me of the ones back in my mother's gardens. Now that I saw—and clocked—the courtyards here, I picked up the Tuscan influence that was dotted throughout Moms. The car crept forward, the home of the Bonetti matriarch coming into view bit by bit. The villa was impressive, something that I hadn't noticed the last time I was here when I was a child. I had snippets of this place, most bad memories of my great-aunt chiding me for everything and then me hiding in my mother's skirts. Yeah, and Dad wondered why I had never come back. Who in their right mind would sign up to spend a day with the Wicked Witch of Firenze?

Still, the home was breathtaking. There was no taking that away from Ginerva. Sitting tucked among sculpted shrubs and perfectly trimmed cypress trees that seemed to prick the brilliant blue sky overhead, the dwelling screamed money and prestige. If anyone wanted to see a mansion that was the epitome of Florentine aristocrats, they only had to visit La Villa Bonetti. The aroma of the river flowed over me as I sat in the car, tension creeping in despite the beautiful view of my ancestral home.

Wide, raised double doors awaited us, along with a plump woman in a blue dress with a black apron standing on the single marble stair, her salt and pepper hair pulled back into a neat bun, her smile wide and warm as the sun overhead. In her day she had been quite a beauty, I suspected, for her face held hints of classic beauty that sun and time could not erase.

"My wife Giada," Alessio said, his affection for the tiny stout woman obvious.

"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.