The Last Time I Saw Paris (34 page)

We stared at her, stunned into silence, as she put The Letter safely back in its envelope. And then she threw out the second bombshell. “And you, Gemma and Livvie, are coming with me.”

Was she crazy? She
knew
I had a demanding job. She
knew
I needed that job. I had responsibilities. I didn't even have time to go to the movies, let alone go to Italy!

“You know we can't do that, Mom,” I said. “And I don't think you should go either. You don't even know anyone in Bella Piacere anymore. Anyhow, this has to be some kind of hoax.”

“A priest would not lie,” she said firmly.

“Why not just call this Dom Vincenzo and ask him exactly what the property is?” Patty said.

Nonna clutched The Letter to her heart as though she had been stabbed. “You want to take all the joy out of my surprise?”

“Oh, sorry . . . No, of course not,” Patty said, bewildered.

Nonna looked me firmly in the eye again.
“We are going,”
she said.

“But I
can't
go,” Livvie cried. “Besides, I don't
want
to go to Italy with all those boring foreigners. Anyhow, I've got stuff to do, and I've got school … and, like, there's this really cute guy I might be dating—”

“We will go in your summer break.” Nonna cut her off in the middle of her protest. “And besides, it will be educational.”

Livvie's pretty Italian-brown eyes rolled up in her head.

“A trip to Italy sounds pretty good to me.” Jeff tried to arbitrate. “Nonna would get to see her old home and find out what her property is, and Gemma, you and Livvie will get to know your roots. Besides,” he added, looking at me, “you could use a break.”

“Remember me?” I said. “The single mom? I have to make a living.”

“You haven't taken a holiday in three years,” Patty put in. “You must have quite a few weeks' vacation time stored up by now.”

I glared at her. She was undermining my position. Then I said to Nonna, “The only sensible thing to do is to give this Dom Vincenzo a call and find out what he's talking about.”

Nonna did not look at me. She didn't look at any of us. She just got up and began removing the coffee cups from the table. She paced silently to the sink with them. Then she paced silently back again. Our eyes were fixed anxiously on her as she silently cleared the table.

She sank back into her chair and stared reproachfully at me. She took off her glasses, and I caught the glitter of a tear. “So,” she said wearily. “So, this is how
little
my family thinks of me.
My family. The only family I have left in the world.”
Her voice dropped a tone, and she added dolefully, “Except for maybe a few cousins still in my old village of Bella Piacere, where I now have property.”

“M-o-m.” I could hear an echo of Livvie's exasperated whine in my own voice. But I was still absolutely firm about this. “I have responsibilities. I can't just drop everything and go on some crazy wild-goose chase. It's impossible. We're not going to Italy. And that's that.”

 

So, of course, here we were in Rome. We were in a taxi on our way from the airport known as Fiumicino, with a driver who had a death wish, weaving through
a tangle of traffic that beat Manhattan's and was twice as noisy. Leaning on the horn seemed to be a way of life here, and driving was a macho one-upmanship contest that had Livvie on the edge of her seat, Nonna with her eyes closed and probably praying, and me clinging to the strap as we swerved around roundabouts and darted down narrow side streets, missing other vehicles by a whisker.

I was beat, not only from the long journey but from the stress of having to rearrange my carefully planned life and take four weeks of my accumulated vacation days to accommodate this trip. And the only reason I was here was not because of this foolish “inheritance,” which I believed could only amount to a couple of cows in some tumbledown barn, but because I had the feeling that for some reason Nonna really wanted to visit Bella Piacere. She wanted to go home again.

It was dusk, and Rome's lights were switching on in a zillion sparkles, bathing the city in a golden glow, illuminating domes and ancient monuments, ruins and piazzas, and twinkling in trees full of very noisy starlings. Could that really be the Colosseum, trapped by traffic and somehow looking smaller than it did in
Gladiator,
when hunky Russell Crowe braved tigers and soldiers as well as that wicked emperor, cheered on by a crowd of thousands? I turned my head to look as we whizzed by. This was almost reason enough to come to Rome, though I guessed I was unlikely to find Russell Crowe among the ruins.

The great dome of Saint Peter's, which no doubt we would visit tomorrow, glowed over the city like a beacon, and the famous Spanish Steps were jammed with tourists, spilling into the piazza below, milling
around as though waiting for something to happen. I thought somebody should tell them that nothing would happen, but then that was just me talking, the mean-spirited, reluctant tourist.

Not for the first time, I was regretting my weakness in saying yes to this trip. I was so determined not to come. All I wanted was to be back in New York, back at Bellevue, back doing what I did best. Safe behind that barricade I had built for myself.

The taxi jerked to a stop and we heaved a collective sigh of relief.
“Buona sera, signoras.”
A top-hatted doorman threw open the door. We stumbled wearily out and were immediately surrounded by a crew of liveried porters and bellboys. They had our battered duffel bags and Nonna's ancient Samsonite, the one she has had for at least thirty years, loaded onto a gilded cart in a flash.

I stared, stunned, at the imposing facade of the Hassler Hotel, and then accusingly at my mother. She avoided my eyes, but she knew darn well what I was thinking—
that this place must cost a fortune.
And I was thinking it even harder in the ornate marble lobby, surrounded by old master paintings and crystal chandeliers and huge displays of fresh flowers. I was also thinking of my poor Amex card, and praying.

I collapsed into a gold brocade sofa, fumbling in my purse, trying to work out the necessary tips in lire, wondering why Italian money had to have so many zeros—even a taxi ride cost millions here. Livvie flopped down next to me, muttering that the place was like a museum, attempting futilely to dial friends in New York on her cell phone, quite oblivious to the fact that people were staring at her. I didn't blame them: her red crocheted shawl was more holes than
wool, her cropped hair was banana-blonde tipped with lime, and her fingernails were the red of dried blood. She could have been an extra in
Nosferatu.

Meanwhile, Nonna headed for the reception desk and announced our arrival to the youthful dark-haired Adonis in charge. She leaned on the counter, friendly, smiling at him, as she told him who we were and that she would like an upgrade.

My jaw dropped. I didn't even know she
knew
about upgrades. I mean, Nonna hadn't been farther than Manhattan in twenty years, and that only for a Macy's sale.

“I was born in Italy,” she said to the desk clerk, “and you know what? I have never seen Rome. Imagine! Not only that, I've inherited property in Bella Piacere,” she added, as though he could possibly know the tiny village in Tuscany.

But the desk clerk was leaning on the counter, hands clasped in front of him, beaming at her as though he had all the time in the world. “Congratulations, Signora Jericho,” he said finally. “This will be a memorable visit. You will enjoy your stay here, signora. And of course, we have put you in one of our two-bedroom deluxe suites. It is already arranged.”

“Bene, bene, e grazie, Signore Antonio.”

She patted his hand as though he were her own son, and I held my breath, praying she wouldn't kiss him, but no, she turned, all smiles, as the bellman escorted us to the elevator and we were wafted upward. We trailed down a plush-carpeted corridor and waited while he flung open a pair of tall double doors. Then we stepped into an earthly paradise of gold and rose-pink luxury.

We stood like country bumpkins, staring at everything,
while the bellman rushed around switching on lamps, opening curtains, pointing out the view, the two marble bathrooms, the minibar, explaining how things worked. Finally I pressed what I hoped was a hefty tip into his hand and said
grazie,
and he smiled, gave us a little salute, and departed.

I turned and looked accusingly at Nonna. “Do you have any idea what this must be costing?”

She straightened a silk cushion, avoiding my eyes. “Of course I know. I booked the hotel, didn't I? And let me tell you, this is a bargain.”

“Yeah,” I said dispiritedly, “the Heiress got us an upgrade.”

She gave me a nonchalant shrug. “Don't worry,” she said. “I have decided to sell my new property. And I'm going to spend the money now, instead of leaving it to you in my will. So enjoy it, Gemma. Just enjoy.”

And with that she strode into her elegantly silk-curtained bedroom, leaving me with my mouth open.

Oh my God, I thought, panicked. At best the inheritance is going to be a barren plot of land with a couple of ancient olive trees and a few clucking hens. And now she thinks she can sell it for
real
money. And what's more, she's
spending
that money now.

I could hear her murmuring appreciatively in Italian as she discovered the delights of her marble and gold bathroom, the rose-shaded bedside lamps, the waffle-cotton robe and matching little slippers, and the white linen mat placed precisely next to the bed so that she need not sully her bare Heiress feet on the beautiful carpet.

And meanwhile, I was wondering how I could double up on my hospital hours when I got back. Somebody was going to have to pay for all this.