19. Chloe

CHAPTER 19

CHLOE

P aolo makes us get up way too early, and we hit the road while we’re both still bleary-eyed and yawning.

I kind of get the feeling that leaving this early in the morning is a scheme to stop anybody else from speaking to me, but honestly, I don’t really mind.

Last night at dinner, I got my first interaction with Paolo’s brothers, and I don’t like the thought of being left alone with them at all . Talking to them even for that tiny amount of time has really made me understand why Paolo has always been so desperate to leave this house.

They’re like vultures, and they spent every second trying to find ways to undermine me or humiliate Paolo.

It was horrible.

We’ve been on the road for almost an hour when I finally turn to Paolo and ask, “So… where exactly are we going?”

He grins sheepishly at me, and my own face falls. That is a look I’ve come to know as the one he does when he has a secret he’s been keeping and now he feels embarrassed to tell me. I brace myself for the worst.

“Okay, don’t get mad with me,” he says, and I glare at him. “But we are going to the village of Ricatari.”

“Ricatari?” I echo. Why is that name so familiar to me? Then it clicks and I stare at him in horror, stammering, “But that’s… that’s where my father grew up. How did you know that?”

He scratches his cheek, baring his teeth in an approximation of a smile. “I looked him up on the public register. It’s not like it’s a secret. I didn’t do it to stalk you. I just thought you might like to see where you came from.”

Part of me wants to be mad with him, to tell him off for invading my privacy like this.

But against my better judgment, I don’t.

Mostly, I just think it’s sweet. He didn’t have to care this much. He didn’t have to figure out my father’s name or go to all the effort of looking him up, finding where he was born.

He didn’t have to make plans for us to come.

It’s not exactly a quick and easy thing to do. Paolo might sit here and claim that it wasn’t hard, but it was also no accident. The butterflies in my stomach raise their horrible heads again, and I try to ignore the message they’re trying to give me.

“Thank you,” is all I say instead. “For thinking of it.”

He just smiles in response.

We spend the rest of the journey in silence, staring out of the windows. Occasionally, I look over at Paolo to watch the summer sun brush over his face, lighting him up in gold.

Once, I swear I caught him doing the same back at me.

When we get to the town, it’s nothing like I imagined it would be.

It’s not big. It’s not busy. It barely looks populated at all. Between the houses there are tiny, cobbled streets, and all of the houses I can see have roofs made of thatch, the walls in red brick. There’s a tiny church in the town center, and a supermarket that looks more like a convenience store. It’s small and looks like it’s been owned by the same family for the last hundred and sixty years. The signs in the window are handwritten and faded, and it’s closed.

Paolo parks the car in what I assume is the central lot, even though there are maybe three spots vaguely marked out. We get out of the car, and he smiles. “This is pretty typical for a Bellamare village. It’s not the smallest by any means — they have a grocery store, a post office, and a gas station. In some villages you have to travel for miles to get any of those things.”

“This is where he grew up,” I whisper, breathing in the air deeply like it might have a trace of him somewhere.

“It is. It was probably smaller in the seventies, but a town like this never changes too much. There are probably people here who still know his name.”

The thought of that is unimaginable. I’ve lived in New York City all my life. I barely even know what my neighbors look like, even less their names or anything about them as people. There’s a pleasant anonymity in the city. It’s worlds away from this.

“Do you want to see the house he grew up in?” Paolo asks.

My stomach lurches. “Okay,” I say quietly. “Do any of his family still live here?”

Paolo shakes his head sadly. “No, I couldn’t find much information on them. I’m sorry. I think his parents have passed, and any siblings he had have moved away to bigger cities.”

“I know he has a brother,” I say, “My mom and contacted him a couple of times. But Dad’s side of the family never were that interested in us.”

“That’s a shame,” says Paolo. “Your family mean a lot to you.”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “They do.”

“Come on, then,” he says, holding out his hand to me. “It’s not far.”

I take his hand and squeeze it gratefully. My personal feelings don’t matter right now. Seeing the place my father grew up in is something I need the support for.

We don’t say much as we walk through the village. Occasionally, Paolo points out something of historical or architectural interest, and I just nod in response, absorbing everything.

I’m trying to imagine my father here. I’m trying to think about him as a child, him seeing all these buildings every day; him living his life here the same as anyone would live their life anywhere.

Flashes of memory come back to me, of him taking me to the park when I was young, of him buying me ice cream. Times he swept me up in his arms, spun us around in circles and told me that he loved me.

Every time I’ve ever imagined doing something like this, coming to Bellamare and seeing the place where my father lived, I’ve always imagined it as a sad occasion. I’ve always thought it would be something that would cause me to break down in tears. Something that would squeeze my heart until it burst. I always thought it would make me grieve for a father I never had, until I couldn’t breathe.

And in a way, it is. It is making me ache for all the things he never saw me do. For all the milestones he missed.

But more than anything, I feel a great sense of joy. It makes no sense. It’s the last thing I would have expected.

Seeing these rickety old houses, the mountains in the background, the people going about their day-to-day lives… it makes me want to cry a little. But not with sorrow or grief. I want to shed tears of relief.

This is who my father was. This is where he lived, what he loved. This is where he went to school. This is who he was before me.

All this time, the memory of him has been secret to me, like something I didn’t dare touch in the fear that it would hurt. That, or, if I reached out to it, I’d spoil it somehow. Like he was something I had to think of as distant and untouchable.

But now that I’m here, I just want to celebrate. I want to think about that wonderful man whom I was so lucky to know.

It’s like a part of me that has been broken all this time is finally whole.

In my head, I send up a little thank-you to him for leading me here. Things with Paolo might be complicated and they might not make any sense, but thanks to him, I’ve come to the place I’ve always wanted to be.

Thanks to my dad, I was led here. It must have been for a reason.

I guess I have a lot to be grateful for.

“Here we are,” says Paolo, pulling me down what looks to be an ordinary street.

A couple of young women wander past us. They catch a glimpse of Paolo and bow their heads deeply. One of them whispers something to the other and they both break down in giggles. They say something to him in Bellamari then walk quickly away after bowing again.

“What was that about?” I ask.

Paolo just shrugs. “It’s no big deal. I’m the prince; they recognized me. People think they have to be nice to me because of my title. It’s stupid, really.”

“They bowed for you.”

He shrugs again. “You get used to it eventually.”

I don’t want to get used to it , I think, but the last thing I want to do right now is have a fight. Being here means too much to me to ruin it by being petty.

“It’s just a normal house,” I say, changing the subject as we stand outside number nineteen, Via Bella.

“What were you expecting?” he asks, glancing at me, his hand tight on mine.

“I don’t know. I guess I wanted it to be something special. But it’s just completely normal.”

“It’s not a bad thing to be normal.”

“No, I guess not.” I take a shaky breath, and Paolo squeezes my hand again.

“We can leave any anytime you want,” he says. “We don’t have to stay if it’s making you uncomfortable.”

“No,” I say quickly. I can’t let him take me away. “It’s just a lot, that’s all.”

We stand there for a long while, just staring at the house. I try to memorize every brick, every chip in the stone, every piece of straw in the roof. I trace the window frames with my eyes, the lace curtains inside, the wreath on the door. In my imagination, the young boy who would be Antonio Fontana runs past, grinning.

“We can see if the owners are home, if you want. We could ask if we can go in.”

“No!” I snap, too harshly. More gently, I add, “No. No, it’s okay. Seeing it is enough.”

Paolo says nothing. He just holds my hand and lets me have this moment.

But it can’t last forever, even if I want it to. My father is gone. And this house belongs to someone else now.

“Let’s go back to the village,” I say, turning to Paolo.

“You sure?”

I nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

As we head back, a bunch more people recognize him and bow deferentially. Bowing to him is one thing, but then they notice our hands entwined and they bow to me too. I really wish they wouldn’t do that, but I don’t say anything. It’s not like there’s anything I can do to stop it. Plus, if I’m planning to stick around in Paolo’s life, this is probably something I’ve got to get used to.

Am I planning to do that?

We wander along the main street, or what counts as such here, and I look in all the shop windows. They’re all tiny, family-run businesses with no set opening hours. I’m pretty sure if I went inside and started haggling, someone would go along with it.

“Do you think they sell postcards here?” I ask.

“Maybe not in this village,” says Paolo, his face crumpling thoughtfully. “But I can take you to the capital, Bellé. They’ll definitely have some touristy stuff there.”

“I’d like to get a postcard for Mom.”

“So, then, a postcard you shall have.” He smiles at me, that big, warm smile, the one that reaches his eyes and lights up his entire face.

It’s only then that I realize exactly how long we’ve been holding hands for.

And I don’t let go.

The way they’re swinging like a pendulum between us feels like a comfortable weight, an anchoring force that’s stopping me from floating away. I should let go. I know I should. I don’t want him to get any ideas about what this means.

But I really don’t want to.

“Wait, I’ve got an idea,” Paolo says, his eyes brightening in the very definition of a lightbulb moment.

“What?”

“Hang on a second.”

He drops my hand, leaving me with a hollow, cold feeling. I stuff my hands in my pockets to force myself to ignore it.

Paolo doesn’t seem to notice my disappointment. He picks up his phone, dials a number, and starts having a very animated conversation in Bellamari. I can’t follow it at all, but he’s smiling and nodding, which seems to be a good sign.

Then he meets my eye again like he’s remembered I exist, and pulls the phone away from his mouth.

“How do you like the idea of going wine tasting?”