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A suite? As in just one?
I barely stifle the urge to groan. I didn’t realize my grandmother and I would be sharing a room for the week we’re here.
Victor must sense our unease with the arrangements. “Don’t worry, the suite is large, and you’ll actually have your own small room and bed, Lainey. It’s just that you’ll need to access it through your grandmother’s room. Odd, I know, but these old villas were built for different times. I suspect it was once used as a nursery.”
“It’s more than enough,” I assure him, guaranteeing an approving nod from my grandmother.
I know better than to complain about the accommodations. He could have stuck me out in the backyard with a threadbare sleeping bag and I would have smiled and thanked him profusely. My grandmother didn’t drill good manners into me for nothing.
“Though the guest list is exclusive, with forty-five people, I had to be strategic with room placements. Rest assured, you two have an en suite bathroom and a private butler who’s been assigned to your needs. Ah, there he is with your luggage. I’m sure he’ll have it put away for you in no time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I hear more guests arriving, and I need to play dutiful host.”
He gives us each a departing air kiss before heading for the stairs.
Inside our room, I’m pleasantly surprised. Our accommodations are small, but they aren’t meager. My grandmother is pleased by all the antique furnishings, and I’m pleased to find that, just as Victor promised, there is a separate bedroom just off the main one. Inside, my bed is small, a twin, maybe, but I’ll gladly take it. There’s a window and heavy drapes, along with a small chest of drawers. All the other furniture is back in the main bedroom where my grandmother is standing talking to the butler.
He introduces himself as Mr. Moretti. He’s a small middle-aged Italian man in the same blue damask suit as the other attendants we’ve seen. He’s been working hard on unpacking our luggage and is almost done, in fact.
As he works, he regales us with information about the villa. Even with his heavy Italian accent, his English is impeccably polished.
“I’d like to know about the grounds,” my grandmother says, walking over to peer out the expansive window.
“Of course.” He continues working on hanging our clothes as he talks. “The lakefront property stretches two miles from end to end. There are extensive gardens, a swimming pool, a private pier, and a boathouse. A lovely walking path will lead you around the entire perimeter of the property, and if physical activity isn’t what you desire, there’s a wonderful sitting area near the back porch that’s quite shady in the afternoon. If the weather cooperates, we will dine outdoors for breakfast and lunch. Dinner will be served in the formal dining room that abuts the ballroom.”
Having finished his task, he closes the closet doors and turns to us with a precise stance, neatly lacing his gloved hands together.
“I’ve taken the liberty of arranging the clothes from your trunks based on occasion, most casual ascending to most formal. I’ll have your costumes for the masquerade party steamed. I did also notice a missing sequin on the young lady’s dress—I’ve already taken it to the washroom. If it’s acceptable, I’ll mend it.”
My grandmother turns and surveys him. “Yes please. Mr. Moretti, you said? You’ve made our introduction to Villa Balbiano very pleasant. We shouldn’t need anything until later. I like to have a Fabiola in the early evenings when I’m in Italy.”
“Of course. Would you like a sweet vermouth or dry?”
“Dry. And be sure the cocktail glass is chilled.”
He bows respectfully then turns to me.
“And for you?”
I smile. “Nothing, thank you. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll have an Aperol Spritz, but I worry my jet lag will catch up to me too quickly if I have a drink before dinner.”
“Of course. If there’s anything else, ring for me and I’ll be right up.”
I thank him on his way out then join my grandmother at the window. We survey the view in silence for a long stretch, and I can barely believe a place like this exists. I’ve been to Italy more than a handful of times, but my travels here usually take me to the great museums and architectural marvels. Lake Como is slightly out of the way, and I know much less about the region than I do, say, Venice or Rome.
“Thank you for bringing me.”
My grandmother reaches out to take my hand, clasping it between both of hers.
“I can’t imagine being here with anyone else.”
“My late grandfather?”
I feel her shudder. “Definitely not him.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“I miss Margaret. She would have loved to be here with us.”
“Yes, I agree. We’ll have to bring her home a whole slew of treats.” She releases my hand and turns back toward the room. “What are your plans for the afternoon? Our travel took more out of me than I care to admit. I need to rest if I intend on eating my dinner rather than face-planting onto it.”
