bat with the association.”
“But what happens when they ask me what I do and how we met and all that?”
“Let me handle it.”
Hmmm. I don’t like this. On one hand, I guess I’m asking Claudio to hide our physical relationship from them, like we’re a pair of star-crossed lovers. On the other hand, I don’t like that he’s asking me to stay quiet about what I do. I mean, without my career, I’m pretty much … nothing.
Finally, the dirt road turns to a gravel driveway and we pull into a parking spot beside a dark green Porsche 911. Vintage, naturally. Like father, like son.
We get out of the car and I get a quick look at the house—a white ranch-style, with an orange roof, framed by mounds of lavender, rosemary, and coral daisies—before a woman comes bounding out of it, her arms wide open.
“Claudio!” she calls out, making a beeline for him, and I’m struck by how she is the epitome of the Italian mother. She’s well-dressed in a yellow silk pantsuit, shoulder-length dark hair, with red lipstick. She pulls her son into an embrace, kissing both his cheeks over and over again, until Claudio is laughing, his hand on her bicep, trying to pull her off.
“Mamma,” he says. “Per favore.”
She grins at him and then suddenly her mood switches. She frowns and slaps him lightly across his face, and starts yelling at him about something in Italian.
Claudio rolls his eyes, and it’s adorable how he’s automatically gone back into parent-child mode. I know it’s the same with me when I see my parents.
“I told you, he didn’t want to come,” he says to her with a sigh. “He is sick of me.”
Ah, she asked about Vanni.
“Please,” he adds and gestures to me, “speak in English for Grace.”
Oh god. I shake my head, trying to smile. “No, it’s okay. Please speak Italian. I am learning.”
His mother looks at me, her frown deepening. “This is your friend?” she asks in disbelief.
Eeep. I sure hope Claudio at least told them I was a woman.
“Yes. Grace,” he says. “Remember?”
“I remember,” she says, giving me the once over.
Instinctively I smooth out my dress.
She walks over and stops just a foot away. Her perfume is heavy and smells like gardenias. “Grace,” she says in her heavy accent. “Welcome to our home.”
She places her hands on my shoulders, her bracelets jingling, and leans in to place a kiss on each cheek. I’m pretty sure her red lipstick marks are left behind, as they are all over Claudio.
“Let’s get your bags,” she says, turning around and heading to the Ferrari. “Then I’ll show you to your rooms and we can have a nice aperitivo before dinner. Claudio, you know you will have to smoke a cigar with your father.”
“Of course,” he says.
We get our bags out of the car, and Claudio insists on carrying mine even though he’s grumbling about how much I packed. But hey, I’ve never been here before. I know it’s three days on Elba, but I’m better off packing six dresses just in case.
Once inside, I grab my bag, and his mother ushers me down one of the halls. “This is your room, the guest bedroom,” she says. “Right next to our room. There’s a bathroom right across the hall that’s all yours.”
The room is small and has a nice view of the lavender and rosemary out front.
“Where is Claudio’s room?” I ask as I toss my bag onto the bed.
“He’s down at the other end of the house,” she says, pointing down the hall. “Growing up here, he was the only one with a room to himself and his own toilet. You can imagine his sisters weren’t too happy about that. But he was the baby.” She sighs and then shrugs as she looks at me. “What can you do?”
I want to hear more about Claudio as a child, but his mother tells me to freshen up and meet them on the terrace.
I take the opportunity to get out of my navy “Ferrari sex” dress and put on a gauzy white one with long sleeves and a macramé neckline, perfect for island dressing. This time I remember my underwear.
It’s going to be kind of weird not being able to sneak into Claudio’s room like we do at home. He said I was welcome to, and my room is the one we’d want to avoid being so close to his parents’ room and all, but even so I don’t want to risk it.