This was a new hotel Carson had acquired six months ago, and it was giving him troubles. My mouth dropped in awe. “Carson, this is beautiful. I can’t believe I never looked this place up on the internet.”
“Do you remember the Rinaldis?”
Memories of the older man brought happiness to my heart. When Dad brought us to Italy, we always stopped by the Rinaldis for tapas and pasta. Dad and Marco were able to shoot the shit for hours. Their parents had been best friends. “Yes, of course.”
“Your dad insisted I stop by Marco’s for tapas and pasta about a year ago.” I chuckled and Carson beamed. “Best damn pasta I’ve ever had. Beats the ravioli we found in New York City with Dad.” I nodded in agreement. Carson continued, “Turns out Marco was ready to simplify his life. He’d asked your dad if he knew of someone who would cherish his building as much as he did. It took a bit to work out the details and renovations.”
Dad would have loved to come here and see this. “Did Marco’s sons not want to carry on his legacy?”
It was rare a family let go of historical places such as this. The Rinaldis were extremely tight knit.
Carson held up a finger to an approaching bellman to hold him off while we finished our conversation. “No, his sons are executives at different companies. They had no interest.”
“Dad would have been so proud of you, Carson. I’m proud of you.”
The pride showed on Carson’s face. He was so accomplished for someone so young. “Thanks, Willow. Means a lot. Let’s get you situated. I have a meeting in thirty minutes with the management.”
We got out of the car, and I whispered, “Do they know you speak Italian yet?” Over the last week I noticed Carson only spoke in English when dealing with this office. They weren’t aware of Carson’s linguistic abilities. He learned a lot when they broke out into their Italian rants.
“No.”
A giggle escaped as I said, “When they find out, I bet they panic.”
He shrugged. “If they did their fucking jobs, there wouldn’t be a reason to talk behind my back.”
Carson raised his hand for the bellman to come get our bags. This was Carson’s hardcore business persona. He kept his cards close to his chest except with me. From business dinners I’d attended, Carson was a different person to the public. Guarded. Untouchable. It always shocked me to see the harder side of him.
The bellman unloaded our luggage, and it disappeared into the hotel as we made our way through the revolving door. Thick marble stone etched in fleur-de-lis framed the archways.
Soft classical music filled the atmosphere. The white marble floors had distressed gray marks through them. Everywhere you looked, another treasure waited to be discovered.
A giant crystal chandelier—wider than I was tall—hung massively over a ginormous flower arrangement.
Amazing.
I spun around slowly as Carson talked to someone. The corners of the lobby had Italian sculptures prominently displayed.
Beautiful.
We opted for the grand staircase made of marble. It was obvious that attention had been paid to the smallest of details, like the accented cord on the lamps with the Whitmore insignia. Carson spoke about how the elevators were too small. Apparently, it would have caused more headache than it was worth to have them expanded due to the infrastructure of the building. Currently, architects were seeing if a larger elevator could be added at the far end of the lobby.
I brushed my fingers along the finely-polished marble banister as we climbed the three stories. Chandeliers twinkled, and the scent of fragrant white lilies and violets permeated the air—both symbolic flowers of Italy.
Perfection. True perfection.
My heart burst with pride. Carson knew his hotel business. The staff made a fuss of providing Carson the best service possible. I’m sure they knew he was pissed. A theft problem, as well as a few management issues, had brought Carson here. People needed to know their stuff was safe when paying near eighteen hundred American dollars a night to stay there.
Security was now top-notch, thanks to Trent, and today the thief would be arrested. On the trip over, I found myself softening a little toward him after hearing all he had done for Carson. He’d been on a few of the conference calls where I’d heard him over the speaker. He never faltered in his professionalism or crossed the line when asking about my case. I respected that.
We rounded the grand staircase to the next floor. Leading us down the corridor, we came to a stop in front of a door. The bellman prattled details to Carson as they walked in. I was too enamored to pay attention.
“This is your room, Signorina Russo. Your things have already been placed in your bedroom. Signor Whitmore, you are in your normal room with your things as you have specified them to be. Is there anything else I can assist you with this evening?” The bellman clasped his hands in front. So far the service here was impeccable.
Carson looked around the room. “That is all, Tomas. Thank you. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
I took in the room. It was decadent in cream, gold and black. When we were alone, I spun around and grinned at Carson. “This is gorgeous. I can’t believe I didn’t get over here sooner.”
The view caught my eye as I traipsed toward the balcony. The Duomo was in the distance with an unobstructed view. I murmured, “Breathtaking.”
“I promised you a view of the Duomo to sketch at sunset. Do you think this will work?”
Throwing my arms around Carson’s waist, I gave him a quick hug. “It’s perfect. I’m going to order room service and sketch to my heart’s content.”
For a moment, Carson’s brows pinched. “I hate leaving you here while I see Francesca.”
I was excited to see him with Francesca tomorrow. On our trip over here, he seemed softer when he spoke of her.
I waved him off. “I’ll get to see you guys tomorrow for dinner. There are a few places around town I want to visit while I’m here. I think I’m going to schedule something with the Uffizi, too, so I can see Dad’s Botticelli while I’m here.” He began to argue, but I stopped him. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Right before Dad died, he had loaned the piece to the museum indefinitely and under the condition the family was able to have a private viewing whenever we wanted. I never understood why, and the will gave no indication. My mother had given him the painting she procured at an auction on their first wedding anniversary. He loved that painting. Going there was one of the things I dreaded doing but needed to do at the same time.
It was time to face that part of my life. And I was scared how I would feel seeing it for the first time without Dad.
Carson watched me skeptically. I reassured him. “I promise I’ll be okay. I need to do this by myself.”
“Okay, but remember, I’m a phone call away.”
He stood there, looking like he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. I waved my hands. “Shoo! Go arrest thieves and get managers in line.”
Carson laughed and gave me a salute. “Will do.” As he walked away, he added, “Call the front desk with anything you need. I’m the next room over. Anything you want from the spa is yours. I’ve let them know to give you carte blanche. I have to take care of my wingman.”
“I love being your wingman. Sign me up anytime.” I winked.
He grinned. His phone rang as he walked out, leaving me alone.
I looked out at the view again and sighed. It was perfect. I thought about the conversation I had with Tack yesterday as I packed.
I pulled out my suitcase to begin packing for Italy.
Tack had been on my mind since we’d returned from Martha?
?s Vineyard. We talked a few times, but it had been surface level. I think our discussion the day of my hangover had affected both of us, baring ourselves to each other.
I threw in some more clothes.
Last night I promised to call him before I left for Italy. Rummaging through my purse, I found the burner phone.
I blew out a big gust of air as I looked at the phone. A small grin emerged as I typed out the message. Maybe I would see if he called me after I texted. I wasn’t sure why I wanted him to call me, but I did.
Me: Headed to Italy tomorrow.
The phone rang almost instantly, and a wider grin spread across my face. “Hello.”
“Hey, there. How was your day?”
I settled into the chair. “It was good. I’m nervous about going to Italy tomorrow.”
In that moment, I knew I’d wanted to talk to Tack to help calm me. He had that effect.
“Do you think you’ll go see the painting?”
Of course Tack knew about the Botticelli if he knew about Dad’s and my special tradition of going to the place where he proposed to Mom. “I’m not sure. Probably. Maybe. I guess I’ll see when I get there. I reached out to the curator.”
“I’m always a phone call away if you need something, Willow. Always.”
Again, I wanted, not for the first time, to feel Tack’s presence again. Anything. A small touch on my lips or his forehead to mine. “Thank you, Tack.”
“How are you feeling since your talk with the security guy? I think something happened that day that bothered you. Are you okay?”
I was stunned. “H-h-how did you know?”
“Sweetheart, I was able to tell in your voice, but didn’t want to pry. You seem more settled tonight, and I wanted to make sure.” That concerned Irish accent had me internally swooning. “Willow, you don’t have to answer. I don’t want to scare you.”
I stood and began to pace. “Dad knew this security guy, Trent O’Malley. They were friends for almost two years, and he never said a word. There was a note in Dad’s writing on stationery my mom had given him but he never used. In it, Dad asked me to trust Trent.”