“No! No. It’s fine. I can tell you’ve got a real vision for that pile of lemon candy wrappers you’ve got going over there.”
Conversation—or lack thereof—aside, Gianluca seemed to also have a distaste for breaks. Each day, we skipped right over lunch. I’d ask him if he was hungry, and he’d insist he’d rather just keep working. I’d try to hang on as long as I could, but by 1:30 PM I usually caved and went out into the square to find a quick bite by myself. The first few days, I brought a treat back for him: pizza fresh from the oven, fresh strawberries, chocolate gelato—but after each thing had gone untouched, I stopped bothering.
On Friday, I spent a good deal of the day working up the courage to ask him to have dinner with me. I’d prepared a speech and planned it down to every word.
“You’ll pass out if you don’t eat something soon. Come on, come have a bite to eat with me.”
I thought I sounded very cool and casual, like I didn’t really care if he continued his hunger strike, but he shook his head without even looking up.
“I’ll get something on my way back home later.”
Right. Wonderful.
In the week we’d spent together, I’d wrestled a handful of words out of him and little else. We were no closer to becoming friends and though I tried to ignore it, with him there, the bed and breakfast had taken on a sort of gloomy energy.
I was moping in my room on Friday night, nursing my bruised ego, when Katerina turned up with some fresh cheese, crusty bread, and more Sciacchetrà.
“You’re a heavenly angel…of booze!” I said, ripping the bottle out of her hand so I could get to work uncorking it.
“I figured after the week you’ve had, you might need some wine.”
“Please say you’ve crushed up some drugs and slipped them in here as well?”
She barked out a laugh. “Was it that bad?”
“Nearly intolerable,” I said, pulling the door open wide so she could come in. “Gianluca is definitely a gloomy sod. There’s no going around it. Drink from the bottle okay?”
“It’s a tradition.” She grinned.
We set up shop on my bed, unfolding the brown butcher paper from around the cheese and then using it as a makeshift table. We ripped off big chunks of bread and guzzled wine, all while I delighted her with stories of Gianluca from the last five days.
“Why wouldn’t he just keep one or two of the wrappers?”
“I know. I’m not making this up.”
“Maybe he’ll toss them out later? You know, once you’ve gone?”
“Fat chance. I’m actually forming a backup plan of turning the place into the Museo di Nonna in case the B&B doesn’t work out.”
“So then do you think you’ll start actually repairing and painting stuff next week?”
I laughed. “We spent all week clearing out ONE room, Katerina! ONE! We won’t be doing any actual work for months—YEARS if Gianluca has it his way.”
She wiped a hand down her face. “Wow.”
“I know I’m supposed to be gentle with him because of what he’s gone through and everything, but something about him makes me want to push back harder, to really trip him out of whatever funk he’s in.”
“I think that funk is called ‘mourning’.”
I cringed. “Okay, right, but if five years of everyone bubble-wrapping Gianluca hasn’t helped, maybe it’s time for some tough love?”
She glanced past my bedroom window, out toward the square, and for a while we didn’t speak.
The shutters were open to let in the sea breeze. The scent of Italian cuisine spilled out from the restaurants below, and the chatter and clinking dishes served as a welcome backdrop to our silence.
“I understand I hardly know him,” I finally continued, “and I never saw him with Allie, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that he really loved her. I have no clue what’s going on with him, and if he really is truly depressed, I know it’s naïve to think I can just shake him out of it. Do you think I should back off? Give him some space?”
“Absolutely not,” she replied quickly, turning back to face me. “For years Massimo and I have been too scared to rock the boat. Sometimes Massimo will get the courage to push him a bit, but not really, never to a point where they’d have a real go at it. But you…” She smiled. “You’re just what we’ve been waiting for. Don’t give up.”
MONDAY MORNING, I arrived at the bed and breakfast even more prepared than I’d been the week before. I had a list of talking points going in my head, simple things that would keep the conversation flowing all day. I brought another sack of pastries and two cups of tea from The Blue Marlin.
Gianluca was already there when I arrived, hard at work clearing out the first-floor bedroom. He hardly glanced up when I popped my head in and said hello.
“I’ve brought you some tea.”
“No need,” he replied, shaking out another black bin bag and getting to work tossing out things from the wardrobe in the corner.
“How about a pastry? They put out these fresh croissants right when I got there and I brought some for us.”
“Thanks. I’ll take it home.”
It wasn’t just what he said, it was the way he said it. To him, I was the most annoying git on the planet.
“All right then!” I said, my voice a tad too shrill. “I’ll be clearing out the front room if you need me.”