Chapter 12
Mama Bianchi
We make it happen with minutes to spare.
Uncle Paul’s buddy drives away in a flatbed truck with the last remains of the deck before the new guests pull into Valle. And with Paul ready to collapse from heat exhaustion and Ro wanting to maintain her Mama Bianchi mystery, it falls on me to check in our visitors.
“They’re here to see you anyway, superstar diva,” Ben says with an evil grin. He towel-dries his hair. After everything we’ve done to keep up appearances at the B&B, Ro wasn’t about to let either of our mud-stained bodies inside without being sparkling clean.
“Your public is waiting, so I hope you have your heartbreak stories ready to go,” he says, winking as he jumps into his sneakers and flings his sopping wet tank over his clean, bare shoulder. A water droplet races down his torso—which I’m too busy looking at to respond quickly.
“…Shut up.”
“Brilliant comeback, as usual.” Ben snickers as he clomps away in wet shoes—squish, squish.
“How ’bout you make some more noise with those shoes!”
Ben spins on his heel to face me, grinning like the Joker as he continues backing away. “That’s all you’ve got? Are you even trying to hate me?”
“YOUR FEET SOUND LIKE THEY’RE FARTING!” I holler, my throat so hot and tight it feels like I’ve zipped a jacket all the way up my neck.
But that jerkoff just rolls his eyes and continues over the lawn toward the rose garden. “Oh my God, pathetic. I take my tits out once, and your brain melts. Get dressed, goblin!”
Hatred seizes me so hard, all I can do is spit at him from the pile of dirt that used to be the deck. “Me get dressed? YOU get dressed! These guests are important, and my aunt isn’t paying you to strut around with your ginger jugs swinging around!”
As Ben turns around again, laughing, the shutters on the second story window above me fly open. Ro—half-dressed, her hair still in curlers—lunges out of the small window balcony. Her eyes are furious. “GRANT ROSSI,” she yells, “what the HELL is the matter with you? People are pulling up any second, and you’re harassing my employee?!”
Ben can’t stop laughing, which makes cooling down impossible as I crane my head up toward Ro. “He called them tits first!”
Just when I think Ro’s eyes can’t flare any wider, there they go. “Stop saying that word! Stop shouting! Keep your voice down, for the love of God!”
My entire face must be as red as a brick, as twin dragons of humiliation and rage do battle inside me. “Ben told me to—”
“Shh!” Ro snatches at the air, as if she’s Ursula plucking my voice away. Obediently, I fall silent, and she slams the shutters closed.
Anger subsiding, my embarrassment dragon bloodily victorious, I turn back toward Ben, who is laughing so hard into his hand he might topple over. On a deep breath, I say, “I’m sorry. You should change out of those wet sneakers. Let me get you—”
This stops him laughing. Now deadly serious, he waves me away. “I’ve got a spare pair in the shed. And knock it off with the fake niceness. You were just starting to cook.”
Finally, Ben runs off to the rose garden—squish, squish—to clear the remaining collapsed vines and finish laying the temporary sod Paul brought from town.
My body goes as rigid as a diamond. My hatred for this boy knows no interdimensional boundaries. Quietly to myself, dripping with poison, I hiss, “How is he worse than before?!”
With no time to process how I’m going to murder Ben McKittrick, I head upstairs, where Uncle Paul is waiting with a new set of clothes: his nicest (and oldest) outfit, a black button-down and matching slacks. “I used to wear them when I was a server at Il Crostini!” Paul chortles, pressing a freezing cold beer to his neck. “I was younger than you back then. Nicest thing I owned, so every time I took out Ro, I was wearing that same damn outfit.”
I tighten Paul’s belt another loop to keep the large pants high-waisted. “She didn’t mind?”
Paul laughs again, moving the cold bottle from his neck to his forehead. “Maybe she did, but she never said. I think she was eager to lock me down. The rose said I was the one…”
As I face the bedroom’s standing mirror, Paul and I catch each other in the reflection. He saw me flinch at the mention of the rose. For Ro and Paul (and nearly everyone in my family but me), the rose is a source of positive, healing, binding energy, not a lightning rod of curses.
Paul knows it’s a sore spot. His eyes drop to the floor.
“Don’t feel bad,” I say, fussing with my top shirt buttons. “I’m happy the rose works for other people.”
Paul groans, finally drinking from the bottle. “Don’t tell Ro, but eh, who you love—who spend your life with—it’s too important to be left up to a flower.”
My eyebrow arches. I undo my third button, giving me my signature Grant Rossi chest peek. “You saying you have regrets, Paul?”
“No!” A bit of beer sputters off his lips. “I’m saying…that rose just seals the deal. People make happen what they want to make happen.”
“You’re saying I wanted to lose Ben?”
“What? No?” Paul fidgets on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know the story there. I’m just telling you, your aunt wanted me, she picked me. If she made her rose wish and, like, the next day, I suddenly joined the army, she’d have hopped a plane to wherever I was going and said the rose told her to do it. See what I’m getting at?”
My hope draining by the minute, I finally face my uncle. “I do. I always thought you two had such a great relationship. Way better than my parents did. But whenever I get with somebody, it’s clear I’m a Rossi, not a Bianchi. And Rossis are better off alone.”
Paul stares, studying me, circling his thumb around the rim of his bottle. “Back then, I remember you and Ben being close. A lot of us could tell.” He raises his hands in surrender. “We weren’t making jokes or saying anything bad. Ro ordered us to stay out of it. She’d read somewhere that with gay kids that young, who aren’t out, you don’t say anything or pry. You just create a good atmosphere so they’ll come out to you when they’re ready.” Shaking his head glumly, Paul gazes into his bottle. “Then you and Ben fell out, he was gone, and you were sitting there at breakfast every day like a ghost. I couldn’t say anything.” Paul shrugs his mighty shoulders, and his dark eyes begin to glisten. “When I was that age, a girl dumped me. I would’ve cut off one of my toes for her, even though she kicked the shit out of me. But I talked it all out with my dad, and eventually, it stopped hurting. I can’t even remember her name anymore.”
Suddenly, Paul looks up with hardened eyes and says, “I couldn’t talk to you about Ben like you needed. I knew it would help you, but I didn’t know how to talk in code. I only know how to say it like it is and name it. You had to be alone with all that, and then we lost you, too. I’m sorry.”
The ice in my blood doesn’t melt, it cracks. Paul is picking at a very old scab. It won’t heal easily, but I’m happy he’s trying. I’d hug him if I didn’t have to keep my shirt clean.
“Ben’s here, and you’re here,” Paul says. “You’re talking. Work it out. If I had to hold on to my crap with that girl like you are with Ben, I would’ve missed everything cool in life.”
Hug him, Grant.
He’s better than Dad. He’ll hear you out. Hug him and tell him the truth.
Yet as my jaw toughens, I know my pain has won again. “You don’t understand,” I say helplessly.
Paul leans forward. “I want to.”
Twiiiiiiiinggggggggg!
As the doorbell shudders the house’s brittle walls, I jump with surprise. “Yoo-hoo!” an older English voice calls from the veranda below. “Mama Bianchi? It’s Mr. Pembroke Cartwright! I hope I’m not too early. You did say check-in was at four, or am I misremembering? The gate to the rear of the property is closed and no one answered when I knocked. Oh, God help me if I’ve got the date wrong. I have a receipt somewhere…”
Paul waves me away to deal with Mr. Cartwright before he monologues himself into a stroke. Dashing into the upstairs hallway of the East Wing, I catch Aunt Ro hanging halfway out of her bedroom door, irritation splashed all over her face. She now wears the Mama Bianchi uniform: a dowdy Sicilian black gown with a crimson shawl draped diagonally across her chest.
“Cartwright is a travel critic!” Ro pleads. “Treat him nice!”
“Oh, nice?” I ask. “Because I was gonna slash his tires. Good thing you said something.”
Ro rolls her eyes. “And he’s gay!” She drops her voice five octaves on the word “gay.”
“Gay?” I mouth, mocking her. “So, like, I should go down there, give him my number?” Ro’s expression crumples into a scowl. “Give him Ben’s number?” She stomps her foot, her chunky heel clattering against the hardwood. “Okay, okay!”
Giggling, I hurry downstairs, check my freshly washed curls one last time in the hallway mirror, and open the veranda door. Mr. Cartwright is a short, bald man around seventy. He’s Black, with dark skin and creases around his large smile. He wears an ascot, a yachtsman suit, and violet-tinted sunglasses. It’s a fussy but eccentrically friendly look.
Smiling, I step onto the veranda, stand as tall as possible, and greet him: “Mr. Cartwright, I’m Grant Rossi. Welcome to Vero Roseto.” I make sure to hit the Italian words hard. “Your room is being prepared. While you wait, may I interest you in a fresh pour from our winery? Mama Bianchi would be delighted to serve you there.”
Smiling, Mr. Cartwright removes his sunglasses with a flourish. “The delight would be mine!” He glances around the veranda theatrically. “My luggage?”
Behind him, four matching houndstooth bags wait to be handled.
With each passing second, I continue improvising my bizarre new life role as hotel manager. After a brief out-of-body what am I doing here? moment, I nod. “Leave your bags where they are. I’ll have Ben bring them to your room.”
“ ‘Ben the Bellhop’!” Mr. Cartwright laughs. “Charming!”
“You have no idea.”
I’m about to lead Mr. Cartwright across the veranda toward the winery when four more cars arrive via the family-side driveway. Ro must’ve closed off the main guest parking lane so Paul’s workmen could freely haul out debris and compost. At once, the other guests park in careless, haphazard lines before leaping out and asking if this is where they leave their cars.
My smile freezes. Mr. Cartwright elbows my ribs. “You’re gonna need a lot more Bens.”
Sir, that’s the last thing I need.
Including Mr. Cartwright, ten guests leave their cars, keys, and luggage with Ben, who rushes to meet us as soon as he gets my frantic texts. With each new set of keys he’s handed, his pockets grow heavier, and his eyes grow wider. “You paying me extra for this?” he whispers as guests mill about on the veranda.
“Yes,” I whisper, “your extra is this needs to go well or you won’t have a house to garden.”
“You’re gonna make a great landlord someday.”
I bare my teeth like a challenged dog. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“I like watching you squirm.” He knocks me on my shoulder before waving to the crowd of new guests. “Say hello to Mama Bianchi for me!”
With an infuriating flash of eyebrows, Ben begins the luggage retrieval, starting with Mr. Cartwright. Our fanciest guest palms a few bills into Ben’s hand as he moves to take the luggage, and the rest of us set off toward the stone path to Vero Roseto’s winery.
The crew is an odd bunch: Mr. Cartwright; a middle-aged lesbian couple with their shy, ponytailed teenage daughter; a middle-aged straight couple with two teenage sons; a twenty-something French woman traveling alone; and a young, sullen, dark-haired girl (not much older than I am) who keeps tossing me anxious glances as if she knows who I am.
In fact, every young person present is eyeballing me like I’m a zoo animal.
They all know. Everyone is here for my drama.
Vero Roseto had close to zero guests before I made that video. It’s extremely likely that each of these people followed every detail of my video and are wondering what else could’ve happened to bring me to this pitiful state, giving B&B tours in the country dressed as a waiter circa nineties-era Central Perk.
I, too, am wondering.
Shoving down those thoughts for now, I lead my tour past the sprawling vineyard, which thankfully has not deteriorated like the rest of the gardens. These vines are vibrant, green, and thriving. Bushels of bountiful, healthy grapes lie in garlands across the wired fencing. It’s the best first sight in Vero Roseto. Truly postcard-ian.
Finally, we reach the winery, a high-roofed red barn with a small gift shop in front and massive catacombs of wine presses around back. A hand-carved placard, spanning the width of the outer wall, reads:
Blue Apple Orchard, Home of the Wishing Rose Label
Blue apples. That’s what Grandma called grapes.
We spent a lot of time around this winery growing up. The family was firm about children knowing our traditions from an early age. Like the Wishing Rose. At Vero Roseto, my family drilled into me that we owe our lives to that rose. That it’s brought generation after generation together.
And, therefore, if it didn’t bring you together with someone, it wasn’t true love.
My heart twists as I sink back into that thirteen-year-old thinking that got me cursed: closeted thinking. Besides my brother’s gay jokes—and my other six siblings laughing at them—my family was never outright homophobic. So why didn’t I feel safe sharing my heartbreak over Ben to anyone? Why didn’t I just let Ro or Paul help me? Because of my family’s myth. Because of that damn rose, my family’s entire relationship belief system centers around the idea that continuing the family line is fate-ordained rose magic…and anything else—which I naturally assumed included non-procreating homo love—was an irrelevant waste of time.
The tour wouldn’t start on a good note if I led with that nugget.
“There she is!” Mr. Cartwright exclaims, quietly clapping. “Woman of the hour!”
Aunt Ro emerges—Mama Bianchi–styled—from the door leading into the barn. She waves gently, making herself seem decades older (and, I suppose, wiser). “Welcome to the Blue Apple Orchard,” Ro says, sounding like an ethereal, benevolent spirit. “You have come to see the gemello maledetto”—she grins cheerfully—“the cursed twin. Invidioso e Grato. Envy and gratitude, the two sides of romance.”
“If you mean we’ve come to drink wine, then hell yeah!” crows the lesbian with a gray butch cut. Laughter spills across the crowd, and even Aunt Ro joins them. The woman’s daughter buries her head in humiliation before casting me another brief glance.
The young dark-haired girl thrusts her arm in the air. “When can we see the Wishing Rose?”
At this, every teen stands pertly at attention. This is what they’re here to see, not watch their parents get tipsy.
“Eh…?” Ro glances in my direction, terrified and thrown off her game.
Oh Lord. Guess we’re gonna start in on this topic right away.
Okay, Grant, it’s grab-your-ass-and-go time again.
I step up to join Ro at the barn door and smile with the charm that’s gotten me so many first (but rarely second) dates. “Quick show of hands,” I say, “who here booked your stay because you saw my video?”
All hands go up. My throat tightens, but I will it to loosen.
“Amazing!” I say, lying.
Ro glances at me nervously, guiltily, but I don’t blink.
Anger gives me strength.
“Awkward!” I laugh. A few scattered, nervous chuckles emanate from the teens. “But it’s actually not awkward. You came because you believe in love. That’s a cool thing. It’s rarer than you think. Be proud of yourselves for that. The Wishing Rose and I have a complicated history, but the Wishing Rose and Mama Bianchi have a great history.” I gesture to Aunt Ro. “The rose wish is all about what you want.”
The dark-haired girl fidgets anxiously, her arm wiggling in the air, and I realize I never answered her question the first time around.
“The Wishing Rose will be available to view after sunset,” I say. “That’s when it’s most magical. For now, it’s your parents’ turn for wine, so take it away, Mama Bianchi.”
Beaming, Aunt Ro reaches for me, snags my whole cheek in her talons, and faces the crowd. “Look at this wise boy,” she exclaims. “He used to be just a tiny thing running under your legs, and now”—she throws up her arms, a few happy tears spilling out—“the pride of this family!”
I can’t believe anyone in my family except her and Paul think that, but I take Ro into a tearful hug anyway. “It’s all right.”
“I just love you so much. I would die without you. I’m okay. This way to wine, huh?”
Grateful laughter floats among the guests—and me—as Ro jerks her arm toward the barn door, and we follow her inside the catacombs.