The Italian

“Likewise,” she replies politely.

“Francesca is going to come to visit us tomorrow if that’s okay?” I ask.

“Of course, it’s okay.” Enrico smiles to his sister seemingly happy that we have made arrangements to see each other.

“I will send a car in the morning to pick you up.”

“Okay.”

He takes my hand. “Goodbye, mother.” He kisses her on both cheeks and I shake her hand and we walk out and he opens my door.

He gets in and without a word we drive down the driveway. “Well?” I ask.

He smiles and puts his hand on my thigh. “She loves you.” He turns his attention back to the road.

God…something tells me that’s a lie.

Francesca

“Can I get you anything?” Olivia asks as we stand in the kitchen. “Drink? Dinner will be a couple of hours away.”

I twist my fingers in front of me nervously as I stand in the kitchen. “No, thank you, I’m fine.”

Enrico smiles lovingly over at me and rubs my arm. “Thank you for coming and spending some time with us, Chesca. It means a lot.”

I’ve been here at Lake Como all day. Olivia and I were supposed to be looking at their house, but we’ve mostly been chatting. Enrico took us out for lunch and we laid by the pool. I really want to get to know Olivia, it’s important that I make an effort with her. I don’t want to be cut out of his life and I know that once he sets his mind on someone, she will be it for him.

“Thanks for inviting me.” I smile awkwardly.

“Spend as much time here as you want, Chesca.” He smiles.

I watch him then lean down and kiss Olivia lovingly on the cheek as she cooks. I’ve never seen him like this before, he’s different with her. Softer, like he is with me.

I’m nervous and I have to steel myself to make conversation. “Ri

co said you work for Valentino.”

“Yes.” She smiles broadly.

“What do you do there?” I ask.

Rico smiles, proud that I’m making such an effort. He knows how shy I am and how big of a deal this is for me.

“I’m a textiles consultant,” she tells me.

I stare at her, wondering what that means.

“Basically, I couldn’t get a position as a designer, so they gave me this job.” She shrugs. “I do love it, though. Fashion design is my ultimate goal eventually.”

“Oh.” I smile. “I see.”

“What year are you in at school?”

“Year Eleven.”

“So, you’re eighteen?” she asks.

“Seventeen.”