“Stop apologizing.” I point at the sign. “He’s in Milan until August. So it wouldn’t have mattered if we came here two days ago or three days from now.”
“Does he knowtheRicky DeLuca is in Amalfi for only a limited time? You should leave a card.”
“Who uses business cards?”
“Touché.” Fielder scratches his head. The blond radiates inthe sunlight. “Maybe there’s another woodworker. Didn’t Niccolò—”
“I checked last night online, and the other name he gave me doesn’t have a public shop, so basically no info. I don’t want to show up to some guy’s house out of the blue, even if he’s a friend of the Avellos’. That’s stalker behavior.”
Fielder laughs. “Well, guess it means these people are missing out on meeting the greatest craftsman of his generation. One day you’ll have a shop here.”
“You’ll farm lemons, and I’ll make custom pieces for tourists.” I peer inside, and though there aren’t many pieces, what I see is stunning—intricately carved chairs, tables, benches exactly like the ones at the Avello farm, a custom bar and an armoire, towering cabinets, and intricately carved grandfather clocks. Tools are scattered about the shop as if Guiseppe left in a hurry, and I wonder what took him to Milan. Perhaps a long-lost love, or an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. Maybe both? “His work is beautiful.”
My mind wanders to what a shop of my own would look like, what kind of pieces I would make—would I focus on custom furniture? Create my own line? Or I’ll do what Dad does and be a contractor for engineers who want custom pieces, or do what Nonno did once he got too old to build his own designs and focus on fixing things for other people. According to Christian Richards, I’m a “visionary still discovering my point of view,” very much an apprentice.
Fielder was always the dreamer; I was the practical one. In order to become a master craftsman, I’ll have to figure out how to dream, and execute what I dream.
“What’ll we call the shop?”
“The Woodworker and the Dreamer,” he says, and my breath catches.
How does he know that title? My eyes narrow.
“I heard there’s an old paper mill museum we could go to?” Fielder stammers, changing the subject and looking everywhere but at me. He starts walking ahead of me, leaving me behind. “Niccolò mentioned it yesterday. From the thirteenth century. Could be cool to see machinery and tools from back then. Tick all your boxes. Or we could go back to the villa and hang at the pool or sea. I haven’t been down there yet.” Fielder hates museums, but I don’t want to go back to the villa yet.
I want to stay in thehere and nowwith the dreamer.
Breathless, I run after him, not paying attention to what’s in front of me and slam directly into him. “Let’s do—oof!”
“Ricky, wait.” Fielder’s breathing heavy. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.
“What?”
“I didn’t want to say anything because it wasn’t my place and I didn’t know and and and, but—”
“Fielder, you’re rambling again,” I say, but he takes me by the hand and points down a nearby alley that funnels out to the beach. Framed by one terracotta building and one mosaic stone is Cam and some American Eagle Matty-looking guy, chest to chest, lips locked, Cam’s messy curls between his fingers.
I clench Fielder’s hand tight, then let go out of fear I might break his bones.
The audacity of Cam to demand I define our relationship, then do this? On a vacation paid for by my family, for my sister’s wedding?
“You knew?” I ask Fielder.
“I saw Cam yesterday with that same dude, but it was right before that Vespa almost killed me, and I didn’t actually see anything, so there wasn’t proof, and I—Where are you going?” Fielder calls after me, but I’m already gone.
Chapter 15
Jell-O Can Never Be Crème Brûlée
“Ricky! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to piss you off, please! I should’ve told you!”
I really should’ve worked out this week more because running to catch up to Ricky and his muscular runner’s legs when I was already breathless from the gag reveal of the century is really taking the wind out of my lungs!
The second Ricky reaches the end of a long row of stone buildings and into a more open clearing, he stops and lets out a breath.
I nearly keel over, hunching over on my knees, panting.
Then, in a twist I didn’t see coming, he starts to laugh. It comes deep from the belly, like he’s exorcising a demon, and once he’s done, he’s wiping tears from his cheeks.
