Grace Takes Off (6 page)

THE LAST TIME I WAS IN AN ESTABLISHMENT
like this one, it was more than five years ago in New York City—and I’d left after
ten minutes. Emberstowne didn’t offer this sort of pulsating neon experience, but
Troppo was Irena’s destination of choice, and I’d resolved to be a good guest.

As I stepped from the cool, quiet evening into the stuffy, dark bar, the bass beat
hit me full in the chest before the music reached my ears. “Wow,” I said, but my voice
was lost in the throbbing rhythm. Bodies gyrated—mostly in pairs—atop a blinking pink-and-purple
dance floor. There was a rock band playing far across the room. They were pretty good,
at least to my ear, and although I couldn’t make out their lyrics, I could tell they
were singing in English. That surprised me. I strove for a better look. Four men,
leather clad and dark wigged, wore heavy eyeliner and studded dog collars around straining
necks. I felt as though I’d stepped through a time warp. The music seemed familiar,
but I couldn’t put my finger on where I’d heard it before.

We wound our way through the crowds of drink-sipping non-dancers with me realizing,
belatedly, that everyone there was at least ten years younger than I was. Which meant
twenty years younger than Irena. I didn’t bother trying to talk—she wouldn’t have
heard a word I said.

So much for quiet conversation.

She led the way through throngs of young people, some of whom glared at our intrusion,
some of whom were too glassy-eyed and bland-faced to notice. Angelo followed us, and
I got the impression that both he and Irena had a clear destination in mind. I hoped
so. At this rate, there was no chance we’d find a table.

Through musky clouds of perfume, hot body odor, and the unmistakable, cloying scent
of booze, we made our way through Troppo’s immense gathering space. At a corner as
far from the front doors as we could have gone, Irena pushed open a heavy, black glass
door, taking us into a blissfully clear hallway that smelled of chlorinated water
and sounded like someone had left a faucet running.

A stone waterfall along the right, bathed in spotlights, illuminated the dark passageway
with dim patches of hot pink. The door shut behind Angelo, bringing welcome quiet.
Only a hint of the vibrating backbeat made its way through the thick glass.

“This way,” Irena said. Her words, coming so quickly after the booming bass, were
overly loud, but I didn’t mind that, or the sudden cool. I ran the side of my hand
against my hairline to brush away lingering clamminess.

Irena didn’t hesitate. She made straight for a stairway on the right and started up
immediately, one long-fingered hand on its blue neon handrail. Turning, she said,
“We’ll be fine, Angelo. You can wait here.”

The big man grunted, but continued to follow.

I closed the distance between me and Irena. “I thought Angelo didn’t understand English.”

“Yeah.” She gave a soft, peppermint-infused laugh. “That’s what he wants us to believe.”

A maître d’ met us at the top of the stairs, recognizing Irena immediately. They conversed
genially in Italian for a moment before he led us into a cozy, candlelit room with
warm-hued stone walls, deep-purple linens, and a view through a wall of glass of the
busy dance floor below. We could see the band members working their instruments with
pounding drive, but it was like watching high-energy, silent marionettes. Up here,
the entertainment was provided by a quartet of musicians doing a fair rendition of
a Beatles’ ballad.

Our fellow patrons took advantage of the quiet. Most of them were deep in conversation,
and all were dressed in what we Americans refer to as “business casual.” I sighed
with relieved pleasure as we made our way to one of the empty tables up against the
wall window. This was a far cry from the noisy dance floor we’d just passed through.

The maître d’ held the chair for Irena. Angelo, as though the thought hadn’t occurred
to him before, hurried to hold a chair out for me. My backside had barely touched
the soft seat when he stepped away from the table, careful not to make eye contact.
Nico Pezzati had obviously had that talk with him about leaving me alone.

“That will be all, Angelo,” Irena said.

The big man tilted his head as though he didn’t understand. She repeated it in Italian.
He nodded and left, taking up a position at the shiny bar across the room, watching
us.

“What’s his story?” I asked. “Do his emotions ever range beyond bored and angry?”

Irena giggled, covering her mouth with her hand as though she didn’t want Angelo to
see her laughing. “You picked up on his personality pretty quickly, didn’t you? I
think Father keeps him around because he does what he’s told without question.” She
flicked a glance sideways. He was still watching. He had to know we were talking about
him. “Mostly.”

Thinking about the argument Bennett and I had observed when we first walked in on
Nico and Angelo, I had to ask, “Does he give your father a hard time?”

She gave a little hand flip-flop. “It’s nothing. Angelo is just so—”

Irena didn’t get to finish her thought. Her hand gesture must have looked like a signal
to the waiter. The lanky older man sprang to our table, abandoning a young couple
at the room’s center where he’d been taking an order. The woman turned around to face
us as the waiter left them, giving me a full view of her surprised frown. A moment
later, she’d returned to her conversation with nothing more than a resigned shrug
and shake of her curly head.

“And what would you prefer this evening, Signorina Pezzati?” the waiter asked in smooth
English. Before she could respond, he began sizing me up. “We are honored to have
a guest of our most favorite customer here with us tonight. You are American?”

How everyone in Europe always knew, I couldn’t fathom. Bennett and I had been automatically
handed menus printed in English just about everywhere we’d dined, here and in France,
even before we’d spoken a word. “You’re right,” I said with polite admiration. “Excellent
observation.”

Chuffed by my compliment, his smile grew wide. “We are always pleased when Signorina
Pezzati graces us with her delightful presence. And we are always especially pleased
when she brings us a friend to meet.”

I had begun to grow accustomed to charming speeches like our waiter’s. The slower
pace, the willingness of strangers to engage in conversation, and a general acceptance
that I hadn’t anticipated had made this two-week excursion one I would never forget.

After he took our orders and left us alone again, I asked, “He refers to you as Signorina
Pezzati. I take it you’ve never been married?”

“Ha.” Her eyes flashed and her mouth twisted, not in anger, but in what I would characterize
as amusement. “I was practically a child bride. Alas, my father did not like my first
husband,” she said, “so I found a new one.”

Before I could ask if she was still married—something I couldn’t help but doubt—the
waiter returned with two glasses of wine and a small plate of antipasto he said was
with his compliments.

When he left us again, I returned to the topic of her second husband. “Does your father
like him?”

Elbows on the table, and holding her glass in both hands, she lifted a melancholy
shoulder. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “He didn’t stay long enough for me to find
out.”

My expression must have given me away, because she patted me on the hand. “How strange
that must sound to you. Don’t be concerned, it all worked out in the end. We married
quickly, divorced even faster.” With a wistful look in her eye, she added, “He was,
and is, a handsome, intelligent man.” Dark brows arching over contemplative eyes,
she took an absentminded sip and said, “Our marriage couldn’t survive my father’s
wealth,” as though that explained anything.

I didn’t press her, guessing that Irena—like Bennett’s stepdaughter, Hillary—had been
taken in by a man more eager to share his wife’s riches than willing to share her
life. Irena was clearly better off without this man, but it was hardly my place to
say so.

She leaned forward. “I went back to my maiden name because I prefer to put all my
troubles behind me.” Pressing a long finger against her lips, she swept the room with
a self-conscious glance and whispered, “Besides, it is much easier finding future
husbands when I am called signorina rather than signora.”

We talked more, about her life here in Florence, about mine in the States, while gyrating
bodies danced on the floor below to my right and Angelo maintained his watch on us
to my left.

After another round of drinks, we’d gotten to that comfortable place in conversation
where barriers begin to drop away. She’d invited me to return to Florence to stay
at the villa whenever I wanted, and I’d reciprocated, offering my house with Scott
and Bruce and Bootsie, or the Marshfield Inn. I knew Bennett would happily welcome
her into his home, but that was for him to offer, not me.

It was finally time for me to bring up the subject I’d been wanting to ask about all
evening. “Tell me about Gerard,” I said.

Irena swirled her wine and stared at the luxuriant ruby legs inside the wide bowl.
Irena’s glass hadn’t touched the table since we’d been served. It wasn’t that she
drank quickly or often; rather, it seemed her habit to keep the stemware suspended
slightly above the table held in both hands, using her long fingers for emphasis.
From time to time, she gave up one hand’s grip when she gestured to make a point.
She moved like a woman accustomed to being watched and liking it.

From my surreptitious glances around the room, I could tell her efforts were appreciated.
With her dark, sparkling eyes, expressive brows, and this flirty way of holding her
wineglass, she commanded attention. Many eyes were on her. Twice, as we’d been talking,
men from other parts of the room made it clear they intended to join our conversation.
Both times Angelo had interceded and we’d been left alone.

Even though she wasn’t movie-star gorgeous, she had a compelling aura. It was all
in her confidence and her presentation.

She brought her wineglass up to almost eye height, staring at it the way an audience
volunteer might stare at a hypnotist’s watch. “Gerard,” she finally said.

Our waiter was at our side in less than two beats. “Is there anything wrong?” he asked
her, turning to me after the fact, as though suddenly remembering I was there. “Would
Signorina Pezzati prefer something else? A different vintage, perhaps?”

She laid a hand on his arm. I wondered if she knew the little thrill she’d just given
the man. Even in this dim room, I could see his cheeks brighten and his eyes light
up. “No, I’m sorry. I’m simply in a thoughtful mood. Thank you.”

Dismissed, he nodded and left us alone again.

“I know it’s a difficult subject.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not for me,” she said. “Gerard and I have never lost touch.”
Finally making eye contact, she shrugged. “He’s my brother. I can’t turn my back on
him.”

“But your father—”

“Father disowned him years ago. He doesn’t understand that people can change. He won’t
give Gerard another chance.”

“What did Gerard do?”

Her expression tightened. “My father forgave a lot. He’s a kind man and he loves his
family, but he couldn’t forgive Gerard’s deception. My brother stole one of our father’s
most cherished treasures. When confronted, he denied it. But we knew the truth.”

For a woman who professed to keep in touch with her brother, she sounded angry. I
asked her about that.

“Yes, of course I am upset,” she said. “Our father is a generous man. He refuses me
nothing. If only Gerard would have asked for what he needed instead of trying to take
it.” She stared out at the dancers below us. “Now it’s too late. Our father has cut
him out of all possibility of inheritance. He refuses to speak to his son.”

“Your father said that Gerard hasn’t tried to reach him for fourteen years.”

“He said that? Today?”

When I nodded, she took a long sip of wine.

“I’m surprised. Father rarely speaks of the matter. They are both stubborn men. Gerard
tried to make amends for a while. But now he is bitter. He knows the wealth our father
has, and he’s angry that he will never be part of that life anymore. I understand.
Gerard lives in New York and claims he is too ashamed of his living conditions to
allow me to visit. I send him what I can but”—she blinked away tears that had begun
to shimmer in her eyes—“there is so little I can do.” Setting her glass down on the
table, she reached across and grabbed both my hands with hers. “I don’t want to cry
in public. Please, let’s talk about something else. What did you think of Father’s
gallery?”

When she let go, I picked up my own glass. “Beautiful,” I said, “though that hardly
begins to describe it. I know Bennett was impressed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he
commissions a new spot on Marshfield property for something similar.”