A Place in the Sun(27)

“Because when we finish, you’ll give me the job as manager.”

“Have you ever managed anything?”

“On paper? No, but I have managed to get this whole project started, haven’t I?”

He dragged a hand across his forehead, most likely ready to toss me out again, but I spoke up first.

“Look, you’ll fix the building, all the electrical and plumbing, the real boring stuff, and I’ll spruce up the interior, paint and all that, make sure people actually enjoy their stay here. I’ve already picked up enough Italian to know how to say Do you need more shampoo? and Thank you, I do look lovely today don’t I?”

He sighed. “Let’s say we do get this place to a point where it could be opened, and let’s say I needed someone to manage it. I couldn’t pay you much,” he said, dropping his hand and turning to fully face me.

I grinned. “I don’t need much.”

“It’s not glamorous work. Renovating an old place takes longer than you’d think. Once we get going, we’ll probably find quite a bit of damage in here.”

“I’m not a quitter, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Oh, believe me, no one would ever suspect you of quitting.”

I smiled and reached out my hand for him to shake. He glanced down at it for a few seconds, seemingly working out the arrangement in his head.

“Partners,” I said.

He accepted my hand and I nearly shivered from the warmth of his large grip.



…



The bed and breakfast consisted of three floors, each a little more worn down than the last. Gianluca look me on a tour, leading me through the first common room with the check-in desk, living room, and dining room. There was a kitchen tucked in the back across the hallway from a bedroom and bathroom. Gianluca informed me that was where the manager usually stayed when the place was operating.

On the second story, there were two more bedrooms and a bathroom, and then one large penthouse and bathroom on the top level. In all, the place was small, but it needed a lot of work.

That first day, we began by clearing things out. We couldn’t even really assess the damage until the place was empty, and though I’d assumed it would be a fairly simple task—throw out the bits of trash until the place was clean—we’d been at it for three days and were still no closer to being finished. Gianluca’s grandmother had collected quite a lot of stuff over the years. Furniture aside, there were enough trinkets, books, and knickknacks to fill a normal house three times over.

And of course, Gianluca didn’t trust me to toss things out on my own. I had to show him every single item I picked up so he could decide if it was trash or not.

“We ought to save that.”

“But it’s just an empty peanut tin.”

“Nonna loved peanuts.”

“Right.” I rattled the empty tin as if to prove to him how silly he was being. “But we should toss it. It’s useless.”

“She might have liked it.”

“It’s rubbish, Gianluca.”

He yanked it out of my hand and dropped it in the “save” pile.

“Bloody hell.”

It continued on like that for the first week. No real conversation, no fun banter or silly joking. We worked tirelessly in awkward silence. I’d pick up something that ought to be tossed, and Gianluca would insist that it had some sort of value. The bloke was a full-on hoarder. It got to be so bad that I would sneak stuff into the trash when he turned his back. I appreciated the value of family heirlooms and sentimental keepsakes, but he was being mental.

“What will you do with the top half of that music box?”

“Keep an eye out for the other part and glue them back together.”

“’Course. Seems logical that Nonna would break a treasured box in half then hide the pieces…”

“You know, I can do this myself if you’re bored.”

“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.