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She doesn’t respond, just climbs out of the van. Turning, she says, “I’ll see you on the platform.” It isn’t a question, but it sounds like one.
And she’s right to think he won’t show. He can’t put her at any more risk.
Half an hour later, he pulls up to a small resort in Madonnino, the place Pinky Man stopped before heading to the airport. It’s another bed-and-breakfast. Pinky Man must have stayed here. Maybe he can find out the man’s name.
He pulls the van to an iron gate securing the resort. There’s an intercom. He leans out the window and finds the call button. There’s a structure at the top of a hill ahead. Another old farmhouse converted to lodging.
He presses the button. After a moment, a voice says something in Italian.
Ryan says, “Hi, do you speak English? I’m interested in seeing the lodge—I’m from an American university and we need longer-term housing for our abroad program.” He doesn’t like to lie. But maybe he can recommend the place for next year’s law journal trip.
The voice, this time in English, says, “Can you make an appointment? We have guests checking in soon and need to finish getting everything ready.”
“I leave today. If there’s any way you can show me, it can be quick. I’m sorry, I’ve been visiting a number of properties and someone I met said yours would be perfect. It could be a lot of business for you if it works out.”
There’s another long pause. Then the iron gate comes to life, the doors swing open.
Ryan jams the stick shift into gear and putters up the hill.
He’s met by a short heavyset woman. She watches as he parks. An unleashed dog rushes up to him when he gets out.
“Don’t mind Bella. She loves to welcome guests.”
Ryan crouches down and lets the dog lick him on the face. Few things in this world can make you feel better than a dog.
Ryan comes over, shakes hands. Shows his Georgetown student ID and explains the school’s annual trip, exaggerates about the school needing additional accommodations for the abroad program.
The woman, Angie is her name, gives him a quick tour.
First the outdoors—the infinity pool overlooking more vineyards, the postcard-perfect cypress trees. The area is nicer than where he and his classmates stayed. He tells her as much.
“I know that place,” she says without elaboration, as if Ryan’s B and B is a rival.
She shows him the common area for guests. It has tile floors, a long wooden table. That’s when he sees the guest book. It’s large and is on a stand with the open book displaying signatures.
“You get many American guests?”
“Oh yes. And a lot of Germans. People from all over the world.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah, except for the Swiss.”
Ryan doesn’t know what that’s about and doesn’t ask. “I love the guest book. Everyone signs in when they arrive?” He examines the book with admiration.
“Oh yes, I insist. We have their registration. But it’s nice to have an informal record that other guests can read.”
He tries to make out the names of the visitors. But she calls him over to the patio where they serve a multicourse breakfast every morning.
Angie eyes a woman sitting by the pool. “Six courses and she wants only toast. The Swiss…” She shakes her head. “And they always give less than five stars.”
Ryan needs to get back to that book. “Any American guests lately?”
“We had a man this week. He didn’t say where he was from, but I know a Philly accent when I hear one. He’s American, but lives in the UK now.”
Ryan doesn’t pry. He can’t seem too eager. “Speaking of accents. Do I detect Chicago?”
She laughs. “Good ear. But don’t make me say ‘da Bears.’”