Authors: Alexa Land
We headed for the door as I pulled my phone from my pocket and began to compose a message, and Luca asked, “What culinary marvels will you be creating, and will I be impressed by your mad cooking skills?”
“Tuna casserole, so probably not. I do enjoy cooking, though. Or, I did, back when I had my own kitchen. Now that I live with Nana, hers usually has way too much going on at any given moment, including the filming of her cooking show.”
He asked, “She’s on television?”
“Kind of. She has a low-budget show on cable TV. She really is an excellent cook and owned her own restaurant for years, but for some reason when the camera starts rolling, it all pretty much goes to hell. I think people tune in just to see how many f-bombs she drops and to watch everything spiral wildly out of control.”
“Sounds entertaining.”
“Oh, it is.”
“One question,” Luca said. “Why on earth are you making tuna casserole?”
“Because I want to give Jessie a taste of home. He told me he grew up on it and misses it. He’s estranged from his family, and last night I saw how much he’s hurting. I think he’s a bit homesick too. So, I don’t know, maybe this will help.”
“That’s very sweet of you.”
“Well, Jessie’s a good friend. He’s always doing stuff for me, and I want to return the favor.” My phone buzzed and I looked at the screen. “Fiona says it’s no problem to use her apartment. She suggested calling some of our cousins and having an Americano theme night to go with the ‘tacky casserole’. Her words.” I glanced at Luca and said, “Want to be my date? My family is pretty loud and obnoxious, and there’s every chance the dinner will be inedible, just so you know.”
“Way to dress up the offer,” he teased, “and I’d love to be your date. Sounds fun.”
“You have an interesting definition of fun.”
“You’ll be there, so it’ll be fun. Plus, I’ll get to try tuna casserole. What is that, anyway?”
“You don’t spend much time in the states, do you?”
“I do actually, but as a businessman. That’s not generally on the room service menu.”
“Oh. Yeah, good point,” I said. “I’m pretty sure it’s noodles and canned tuna baked in some kind of sauce. There might be crumbled potato chips on top. I didn’t grow up on it, so this will involve a bit of trial and error. How hard could it be, though?”
I texted Fiona again, giving the impromptu party a thumbs up. When we ran into Nana and Jessie in front of the hotel, waving goodbye as the float pulled away, I said, “We’re making you two dinner at Fi’s apartment tonight. She’s going to invite some of my cousins, too. Can you be there by seven for cocktail hour?”
Nana clapped her hands and said, “Sounds fun! Want me to come early and help you cook?”
“No thanks, Nana. I just want you and Jessie to be our guests and relax. You’re on vacation,” I told her.
“Well, so are you.”
“I know, but I’m going to enjoy this, especially because Luca’s agreed to be my completely unhelpful sous chef.”
He said, “Yup. Total unhelpfulness guaranteed.”
“You boys have fun,” Nana said. “Jessie and I are gonna relax by the pool for a bit, we’ll see you at seven. I want to work on my tan so I look hot for tomorrow night. I hope I remembered to pack my bikini.”
They went into the hotel, and as Luca and I started down the sidewalk he asked me, “Does she really have a bikini?”
“Oh yeah. Just be glad we’re at a family-friendly hotel. It means she won’t be doing any topless sunbathing this time.”
Luca chuckled and said, “I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone like your grandmother.”
“And you never will again. She’s definitely one of a kind.”
He held my hand as we walked north, toward what the locals referred to as
Nuova Citta
, or ‘New Town’. The fact that it was over two hundred years old said a lot about Viladembursa. “I need to buy a suit,” I said. “There was one in my luggage, but at this point I think the chances of it showing up are pretty slim.”
“Why do you need a suit?”
“Because right now, it looks like you’re walking your child home from school.”
He laughed at that and said, “It does not!”
“Sure it does. Here I am in shorts, sandals, and a camp shirt, and you look like you’re on your way to seize control of a Fortune-100 corporation.” I waved my hand up and down, indicating his perfectly tailored suit. “Am I going to be completely underdressed when we reach this gallery? Are they going to seat me at a little table with a juice box and some crayons while the grown-ups talk about art?”
“You’ll be fine. I tend to overdress for work.”
“Why?”
“A lot of what I do is a confidence game. People need to feel they can trust me and believe in my expertise. It helps to look the part and exude an air of authority. That isn’t why I dressed up for this particular gallery, though. The owner’s a friend of mine and he’s older, so I’m wearing a suit as a sign of respect.”
“Explain to me exactly what you do.”
“In a way,” he said, “I’m kind of a personal shopper. I have several wealthy clients who live all over the globe, in Dubai, Manhattan, London, Helsinki, among other places. They all have the wealth to put together truly magnificent art collections. What they don’t have is the time or inclination to do the legwork and seek out exceptional pieces. Some have a passion for what they collect, but all of them also want to invest in artwork that will increase in value.”
“And you find things by going to galleries, not by attending auctions?”
“I do both.”
“Do you think you might find something at your friend’s gallery?”
“Possibly,” he said. “One of my clients is a bit of a gambler. He doesn’t want to spend a hundred million dollars on a Gauguin, though he could. He wants the up-and-comer, the next Jasper Johns right before he’s discovered and his career skyrockets. This gallery owner strives to do the same thing, and has a pretty remarkable eye. He used to run a well-known gallery in New York. Then he retired in his late sixties and moved here with his wife, because this was her hometown. She passed a couple years later though, but he stayed and opened a small gallery, which he calls a hobby. I’m lucky that it’s in a town I visit frequently, though really, I’d travel just about anywhere for Mr. Caravetti.”
“Have you ever bought anything for a client that you really wanted to keep for yourself?”
Luca grinned. “It happens all the time. The one that broke my heart was a small Cezanne I procured in 2009. It had been one of my favorite paintings since childhood. I carried it in my lap from Brussels to Los Angeles. It was so special, and it killed me to hand it over, especially because that particular collector didn’t even sort of appreciate it. He was only interested in its monetary value. It would have been so much easier to give it to someone who bought it because they absolutely adored it and would appreciate its beauty.”
“If he decided to put it on the market, could you buy it for yourself?”
He shook his head. “I could never afford it. Even if I could, I wouldn’t keep it. Something like that belongs in a museum, so it can be enjoyed by everyone. Right now, it’s hanging in the downstairs bathroom of a Hollywood celebrity. That fucker hung it over the
toilet
. He doesn’t respect or appreciate it at all! He was a new client, and led me to believe his interest in the painting was more than monetary. I should have known not to believe him.”
“What an asshole! Why the hell would someone pay, what, millions? For a beautiful work of art and then hang it in a bathroom?”
“Yeah, millions. Eighteen of them, to be exact. Normally a Cezanne would be much more, but this one is tiny, it’s just six inches by six, though it’s framed out to feel larger. And the bathroom thing was completely deliberate. He wants people to say, ‘Oh my God, he’s so incredibly successful that he can hang an eighteen million dollar painting in the crapper!’ His ego is out of control.”
“For the first time in my life,” I said, “I wish I was a criminal. I want to liberate that painting and give it to you.”
“Oh believe me, I’ve had fantasies about doing that, too. But like I said, it belongs in a museum, and they’re not big on receiving stolen property.”
“Yeah, good point.” I thought about the painting for a while as we walked, and eventually asked, “How did you get to be so knowledgeable about art?”
“I have a PhD in Art History from Cambridge.”
“Holy crap!”
“It’s not that impressive. All it really means is that I get to sound like a pompous asshole when I discuss art at cocktail parties.”
I grinned at that and asked, “Was this job always the plan?”
“No, not at all. I figured I’d find work as a curator in a museum. This pays a hell of a lot better though, and has allowed me to keep traveling. I don’t know how I’d do living in just one place. It’s not something I’ve ever done.”
“Do you have a home base, or are you always in hotels?”
“I have an apartment in Rome, but I’m not there very often.” Luca squeezed my hand and said, “Enough about me, tell me about you. Where do you go to school?”
“Hastings.”
“Excellent. What did you study as an undergrad?”
“Biology. I became an EMT after I graduated, because I wanted a job where I could make a difference. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted, actually.”
“Why did you stop working as an EMT?”
“When my relationship ended and I moved out of Los Angeles, I tried to give my entire life an overhaul. The job sort of became collateral damage.”
“I see.”
“So now, the goal isn’t to become a corporate lawyer, it’s not about the money. I haven’t really narrowed down exactly what I want to do with it, but I can see myself ending up in the nonprofit sector when I graduate. A law degree can provide a lot of opportunities to make a difference and to help people.”
“How much time do you have left in your program?”
“I just completed my first year.”
“And you hate it, right?”
“I really do. The material is so dry! I have to force myself through it.”
“I guess I don’t get why you’re sticking with it,” Luca said. “It doesn’t seem to be a good fit for you.”
I thought about that for a while as we walked, the level terrain transitioning to a bit of an incline. “It’s not, but it keeps me busy and it keeps me moving forward, you know? I think I just needed to throw myself into something after my breakup, and in that respect, law school was perfect. I’ve been way too busy to sit around feeling sorry for myself. Or, well, to feel much of anything.”
Luca told me, “I can think of a lot of ways you could be distracting yourself besides law school, and none of them are nearly as masochistic.”
“Like what?”
“Traveling, for example.”
“I don’t have any money, so running off to Fiji or someplace isn’t an option. I’m paying for school with student loans and living off my credit cards.”
“You’re going to end up massively in debt.”
“Oh, I know. I’ll be paying all of this off until I’m sixty.”
“Just another reason why law school might not be ideal.”
“It’s not. But at least it’s
something
.”
“I get it,” he said. “It’s filling a void. At the same time, you’re being productive and thinking about your future. You could have made far worse choices. I have this client who started sleeping with absolutely everyone after his girlfriend left him. His whole life just turned into a string of one-night stands. He’s lonelier than ever now and started seeking counseling for depression.”
“You know a lot about your clients.”
“A couple of them have become friends.”
“Well, I never would have gone down that path. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I’m not a random hookups kind of guy. Like, at all. You were supposed to be my very first summer fling, but as you can see, I’m pretty much totally failing at making this all about sex.”
“Good.”
I glanced at his profile as we reached the top of the hill we’d been climbing. “What are you looking for, Luca? What do you want from this?”
“I’m not really sure I can answer that question right now,” he said quietly. Then he changed the subject by saying, “The gallery’s just up ahead, at the end of this block.”
I nodded, and after a moment I blurted, “You’re the second guy I’ve ever slept with.” He stopped walking abruptly, and I turned to look at him. “I’m only telling you that because I don’t want you to think I’m some total manslut and do this all the time. I messed around a bit before my ex and I got together, but it never went all that far. Then, after my relationship ended…well, it took me a while to get to this point.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“I can only imagine what you must think of me, between the provocative clothes and the see-through swimsuit and by sleeping with you the day I met you. I mean, I get that a lot of men do that, and I’m in no way judging them. It’s just…it’s not who I am.”
He grinned a little and said, “You don’t even sort of come across as promiscuous. Not even a sheer Speedo could make you seem like that.”