Page 40 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

Piantare un giardino è credere nel domani.

To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.

Italian saying

Before our train pulled into the station at Lake Lugano, we went through the list of garden tours and agreed that Villa Melzi would be our first destination when we toured Bellagio later that afternoon.

Claire liked that the villa was only a ten-minute walk from where we disembarked from the ferry.

I liked that they raised exotic and rare plants.

“It intrigues me,” I said, “that the area we’re going to is at the base of the Alps and yet has a Mediterranean climate. They have palm and citrus trees as well as cacti and calla lilies. And hydrangea. It’s hard to imagine what kind of climate and soil would allow for that.”

Claire grinned. “You really are a flora and fauna nerd, aren’t you?”

“That is a label I will proudly wear,” I said. “I’m far from an expert on any of it. I just love gardening and want to learn more.”

“Same as my love for cooking. I’m looking forward to this.”

I sat back and smiled. A friend who knows what makes your heart happy is a true treasure. Claire and I were good at being that kind of friend to each other.

We arrived in the town of Lugano and were back in rhythm.

Claire efficiently led the way to the car rental desk and had all the required documents ready.

It still took an inexplicably long time for us to be handed the keys to our compact car.

When we pulled our suitcases out on the lot and discovered which car was ours, we burst out laughing.

“It’s so cute!” Claire patted the roof of our bumblebee-yellow, two-door Fiat.

“There’s no trunk, is there?” I observed. “Do you think our luggage will fit in the back seat?”

“Look,” Claire said from the back of the car. “It has a luggage rack. We can strap one on here. Or we could look around for another Raphael and see if he can follow us home with our luggage.”

“No more Raphaels, please. How about if we try to wedge one of the suitcases in the back, and I’ll hold the other one on my lap?”

We squished and adjusted and laughed and shifted some more.

“Ready?” Claire started the car and pushed a few buttons to find the map mode on the tiny screen on the dashboard. She checked the address on her phone and typed it in. As she drove forward, the directions were spoken in Italian.

“How do we switch this to English?” She tapped the screen, and a voice came on speaking French. “No, English,” she said.

Two more attempts failed.

“Deutsch,” I said, just to see what would happen. The voice spoke to us in German, and we cracked up again.

“Change to English,” Claire spouted, emphasizing “English.”

The system reverted to Italian.

“Here.” She handed me her phone. “Just read the directions to me. Which way do we turn to get onto the road highlighted on the map?”

“Take Riva Giocondo Albertolli to Viale Carlo Cattaneo.” My accent was terrible.

“Grace, please. Just tell me either right or left,” Claire said. “In English.”

We ended up going both right and left and then left and right and around a block before managing to find the correct main road to San Mamete.

Claire managed the narrow, twisting road with more expertise than I think I would have.

She wedged our little honeybee into the last spot in a lot at the north end of the village, and we walked to the hotel with our luggage.

Our hotel was charming inside and out, and we were right on the lake. Our room was small, but I loved that we had a balcony overlooking Lake Lugano. The two of us stood on the balcony breathing in the sweet, fresh air and drinking in the view.

“So gorgeous,” I murmured. “You did it, Claire. You found us another gem. Well done!”

She leaned on the railing and let out a sigh of relief.

We settled in a bit but didn’t allow ourselves to completely downshift. Our plan was to tour Bellagio, so we gathered what we needed for the rest of the day and popped into the panetteria across the street. We made the pleasant discovery that the shop was more of a mini market than just a bakery.

“Acqua minerale,” Claire sang out as she held up two bottles she’d found.

“Molto bene,” I said, remembering our polite support of the waiter who’d introduced us to his favorite and best local water.

We gathered an assortment of picnic goodies and nibbled on them during our almost hour-long drive around the northern end of Lake Lugano.

We reached Menaggio on the shore of Lake Como in time to catch the next ferry leaving in five minutes.

Clouds had gathered overhead in long, frilly shapes, and the temperature felt cool coming off the water.

Claire and I had the same idea. We didn’t enter the covered area on the large ferry.

Instead, we took the stairs up to the next level and stood on the deck during the twenty-minute ride.

The snow-covered mountains in the distance sent a brisk wind over the water.

In front of us, lining the docking area, were four-story buildings painted the color of fresh butter with red-tile roofs.

Each building had the uniform rectangular windows we had seen on most structures in Italy.

I loved the colors of Bellagio and had fun trying to spot balconies where the residents were growing flowers and even tomatoes in terra-cotta-colored planters.

“Which one of those do you think is the hotel where your parents stayed?” Claire asked.

“I don’t know. The nicest one, whichever that is. And Claire, you know how my mom gave us a list of her favorite shops and restaurants? There’s only one that I’d like to go to.”

“Only one? Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I want this to be our trip, not a replica of hers. She listed a silk shop I’d like to visit. I have the address.”

“Sounds good.” Claire smiled. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Congratulations for what?”

“For not being afraid of what your mom might think when we recap our trip for her.”

“I let go of that fear the minute I hopped on the Vespa and followed you and Gio to the villa.”

“That really was a defining moment for you, wasn’t it?”

I loved that Claire noticed my newfound confidence, because I felt it.

Our exploration of Bellagio began with Claire striking out in her pathfinder mode.

I had become accustomed to following her swinging ponytail through the crowds in Venice.

Today her cute new short hair was my guide.

I wore the hat Rosie gave me, which Claire said later that day had made it easy for her to spot me when we dipped into a sea of visitors.

Her goal was to find the gardens of the Villa Melzi, and the route was along a wide walkway skirting the lake.

We strolled under well-cared-for oleanders pruned to be small trees rather than bushes.

They were just beginning to show their magenta flowers.

Every few yards along the promenade a bench appeared, facing the lake and inviting strollers to rest and reflect.

Planters were abundant along the walk and on the railing that separated the path from the lake.

“Do you know what kind of flowers these are?” Claire stopped by a planter spilling over with a delicate-looking flower that was a pale purple color with a star shape.

“Those are vinca,” I said. “They’re also called periwinkle. In folklore they were referred to as the flower of death because they’re toxic. But years ago, a drug was created from the flower that is used to treat leukemia.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was going to plant some vinca when Emma was little, but I asked at the nursery, and the guy who worked there told me to buy impatiens instead. They look similar. He’s been my go-to flower guy ever since.”

“I never knew you had a flower guy,” Claire teased. “What are those?” She pointed to a planter of deep purple flowers.

“Petunias. But you knew that, right?”

“I get petunias and pansies mixed up.”

“Well, I get mozzarella mixed up with mortadella, as you observed at the villa.”

Claire stopped walking and gave me an incredulous look. “Mozzarella is a cheese. Mortadella is a meat.”

I shrugged. “Petunias are annuals and pansies are perennials.” With a playful I-know-something-you-don’t-know voice, I added, “Except in mild climates. Petunias can be winter hardy in Zones 9 through 11. We live in Zone 9b, which is why orange trees grow so well there.”

“I’m kind of afraid of you right now,” Claire teased. “You really are a flora and fauna nerd and you make a mean pesto. I think I better plant some seeds when we get home just to keep balance in our friendship universe.”

“If you’re serious about planting seeds, try carrots. They like our climate. Get Nantes. They’re sweet and crisp, but they don’t last as long as Danvers.”

“Keep talking,” Claire said. “I’m seriously interested in this because I would love to grow my own carrots for Bolognese sauce, like Amelia does.”

We continued our cooking and gardening exchange as we walked through the gardens at Villa Melzi.

Much of the path was shaded with a variety of trees that were still dressed up in their shimmering spring-green leaves.

Claire loved the Japanese pond with the bright orange koi fish.

I was delighted to see so many colorful rhododendron bushes in bloom.

Both of us were entranced by the lily pond that faced the lake.

Claire asked lots of questions about the variety of plants and flowers and acted impressed that I knew almost every answer. I thought everyone knew what an aloe plant looked like and that there were more than a dozen kinds of palm trees that grew in different climates.

“Thanks for letting me go on about the flowers. I’ve been thinking a lot about reviving my garden when I get home. Or, well, after June 15.”

“Did your boss ever send you anything that officially notified you that your job is ending?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t he have to do that, legally?”