Lake Como (14 page)

“I thought he was in love with Veronica.”

“He always has a Veronica.” Portia shrugged. “His women are like newspapers. He discards them when he’s done.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Hallie frowned. “Children will give you gray hairs and ruin the furniture, but they are very rewarding.”

“I’m afraid I’d be a terrible mother.” Portia held her glass so tightly, Hallie thought it would snap. “I would run away like Francesca and abandon my children.”

“Francesca was so young,” Hallie replied. “She was far away from Constance and San Francisco. The Tesoro villa was like a prison, she had to escape.”

“But what if I’m just like her?” Portia demanded. “What if the baby is ugly or cries too much and I can’t stand it? I’ve always sworn I’d never have children. That’s why I wanted to be a dancer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When Francesca left I was barely one. Marcus said I lay in my cot and cried for Mama every night. When I was three, I asked him where Mama went. Marcus told me she went to America because she didn’t love us.”

“Why would he do that?”

“It was the only way to shut me up,” Portia replied. “I couldn’t understand how a mother could live away from her children. I hated her for so long. If I did the same thing, my children would hate me. I could never live with myself.”

Hallie pictured young Portia, big green eyes and hair like a gypsy, running around the villa searching for her mother. “You wouldn’t do the same thing. You’re almost thirty, you have a good husband. You have Pliny and your grandmother and all your friends.”

“Sometimes I get so angry at Riccardo, I want to stab him in the chest.” Portia’s eyes flashed. “What if I got sick of his women and had to leave? I couldn’t take my children with me. I’d do just what Francesca did, I’d desert them.”

“I’m sorry,” Hallie mumbled, her eyes filling with tears.

“You didn’t have anything to do with it.” Portia tried to smile. “I was nine when I saw Francesca. By then I was a little girl who never had a mother.”

“You seemed so worldly,” Hallie mused. “I remember the first time you stayed at Constance’s; you told me about the discos in Rome you could go to when you were ten.”

“I was going to be the most famous ballerina since Anna Pavlova,” Portia replied. “They were going to name a cake after me.”

“Chocolate cake with rich vanilla custard,” Hallie said lightly. “Do Sophia and Pliny know?”

“They would chain me to the bed until Riccardo and I made a baby.” Portia shook her head.

“Why didn’t you tell Riccardo when you married him?” Hallie asked.

“No Italian man would marry a woman who didn’t want children.” Portia finished her wine. “I thought I would change my mind. I thought once we were married I would want a little Riccardo or Portia. But I just see a little girl running through a villa crying for her mother. I can’t take the chance of ruining a child’s life.”

“What are you going to do?” Hallie asked.

Portia refilled her wineglass and slumped in her chair. “I have no idea.”

*   *   *

Hallie and Portia shared a dark chocolate cake in raspberry sauce. They had been sitting for an hour, mulling over Portia’s problem. They were both blurry with wine and full of pasta and bread.

Hallie watched a young couple stroll along the promenade. The woman wore a wedding dress: creamy white satin, pearl beads, and a large ivory bow. The groom wore a black tux, white tie, and shiny black shoes. A photographer trailed them, posing them on the steps of the hotel.

Hallie thought about the weddings she had attended this summer: the ballrooms lit with twinkling lights, the pink wedding cakes, the glasses of sparkling champagne. She remembered the thrill of arriving on Peter’s arm, confident that next year it would be her and Peter standing before the priest.

“They make it look so easy.” Hallie pointed to the bride and groom. “Smile for the camera and live happily ever after.”

“Weddings are like theater,” Portia agreed. “A magnificent stage, wonderful costumes, music, applause. Marriage is like the actors backstage, constantly arguing about their lines. We were better off when marriages were arranged.”

“Constance is busy planning my wedding.” Hallie sighed. “I don’t have the heart to stop her.”

“Did you tell Peter yes?”

“I haven’t told him anything.” Hallie watched the bride and groom kiss. “I saw a picture of him and Kendra on Facebook. I’m sure it was innocent but it ties my stomach in knots.”

“We’re going to have a slumber party.” Portia suddenly jumped up. “We’re going to pull out my Bangles CDs and dance and forget about men.”

“What about Riccardo?” Hallie asked, remembering Portia as a girl with neon nail polish and white plastic go-go boots.

“I’ll see him tomorrow.” Portia threw a wad of euros on the table and waltzed down the steps. “Tonight I’m going to be a little girl dreaming about being a ballerina.”

“Can we jump on the bed and play air guitar?” Hallie laughed.

“We’ll put up my old Enrique Iglesias poster and cover it with lipstick kisses,” Portia replied.

“I wish I brought my bridal Barbie.” Hallie giggled, running to catch up with Portia on the promenade.

chapter ten

Hallie slipped on a green Tory Burch sundress and glanced in the mirror. She and Portia had stayed up all night, singing along to David Cassidy and Justin Timberlake. They passed around a bottle of raspberry cassis, finally falling asleep fully dressed on Portia’s king-sized bed.

When Hallie woke, the French doors were wide open and Hallie could hear speedboats zipping across the lake. Portia had left a note saying that she was going for a spin in Riccardo’s new Lamborghini. Lea knocked on the door and informed Hallie that Sophia would like to see her in her study.

Hallie brushed her hair, feeling like a young girl called to see the principal. She remembered sitting in the drab school hall, waiting to hear her punishment. Her infractions were never larger than chewing bubble gum or passing notes during chapel, but the headmistress, with her steel gray hair and flowing robes, filled Hallie with terror.

Hallie knocked on the door and waited for an invitation to enter. The room had dark wood floors and a high, beamed ceiling. A painting of the Madonna and a round-faced infant filled one wall.

“Is that a Raphael?” Hallie moved closer to the painting.

“When he was a student,” Sophia affirmed. “Raphael is the greatest painter Italy ever produced. You must go to the Vatican and see the School of Athens.”

“The villa I am designing has the most wonderful Renaissance art collection,” Hallie murmured. “You would love the Botticelli.”

“I have a Botticelli in the library, I will show it to you.” Sophia took off her reading glasses and studied Hallie. “You are a good influence on Portia; I am pleased.”

Hallie exhaled like a child who received a new doll when she was expecting to have her toys taken away.

“I’m afraid we kept you awake last night.” Hallie smiled. “We’re not very good singers.”

“Singing is better than staying locked in one’s room, refusing to eat.” Sophia twisted a large sapphire ring around her finger. “Portia is seeing Riccardo.”

“I know.”

“They must move in together and this will all be forgotten,” Sophia continued. “A blemish in the first flush of marriage.”

“I’m not sure Portia is ready to live with Riccardo,” Hallie stammered.

“This is not the time for courtship,” Sophia replied. “Portia will be thirty, it is time to start a family.”

Hallie remembered Portia’s big, frightened eyes, her narrow, trembling shoulders. She wanted to say not all women wanted babies; some couples stayed happily married for decades without children. But Sophia’s eyes were hard as thumbtacks.

“Portia should wait till Marcus’s wife has her baby,” Hallie suggested. “Angelica can teach her everything she learns.”

“Tesoros have lived in Lake Como for four hundred years,” Sophia replied as if Hallie hadn’t spoken. “Portia knows her duty.”

Hallie glanced around the room, looking for some way to change the subject. She saw Constance’s present, sitting on the desk wrapped in gold paper.

“Did you like your gift?” Hallie asked.

“Your grandmother is very thoughtful.” Sophia nodded. “We found we had much in common when she stayed at the villa. We both admire the poetry of Christina Rossetti.”

Hallie blinked, trying to imagine Constance and Sophia sipping espresso and discussing Romantic poetry.

“I must write to Constance and thank her,” Sophia continued. “It is curious that a woman as cultured as Constance could produce a wild child like Francesca.”

Hallie clenched her hands. She sat up straight so Sophia wouldn’t see her flinch. “That was thirty years ago. Francesca has a successful wedding cake business.”

“A baker.” Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “Young people make mistakes, it is left to their elders to correct them.”

Hallie kept her expression neutral. She wanted to get away from Sophia and breathe the fresh lake air. She wanted to run down to the shore and watch children play on the beach and see fishermen catch their dinner.

“Come.” Sophia stood up. “I will show you the Botticelli.”

Hallie followed Sophia down the grand staircase to the library. Every inch of wall was covered in books; they were stacked so high Hallie wondered how anyone reached them. Some were bound in leather; others were black with yellowed pages. There was a section of history books, art books, and thick, gold Bibles.

“My grandfather started his collection one hundred years ago.” Sophia ran her knobby fingers over leather bindings. “He cataloged every book: French poetry, British drama, the Renaissance, the Middle Ages.”

“I would love to borrow a book on the Renaissance,” Hallie murmured, flipping through a coffee table book on Michelangelo.

Sophia shook her head. “The books do not leave this room. But you are welcome to sit and read. Return each volume where you found it.”

Sophia placed the book of Rossetti’s poems on the shelf next to Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She showed Hallie the Botticelli in its ornate gold frame.

“I must check in with Lea,” Sophia announced. “Riccardo and Portia are joining us for dinner.”

*   *   *

Hallie waited till Sophia’s footsteps faded, and then she approached the bookshelf. She remembered the hours she spent in Constance’s library, reading Nancy Drew and Judy Blume. She would curl up on the floral sofa and eat Jelly Bellys as she turned the pages.

Hallie took down books on Donatello and da Vinci. She poured over Michelangelo’s sketches and pictures of Bellini’s statues. She moved from shelf to shelf, forgetting that she hadn’t eaten breakfast. There were volumes of Dante, Baudelaire, and Machiavelli. Hallie took down a book with a familiar gray cover. It was a dog-eared copy of
The Water Babies,
the only book Francesca read to her when she was a child.

Constance usually supervised Hallie’s bedtime, reading a big book of Grimm’s fairy tales. But every now and then Francesca would take over, and read the same book at the same page. Hallie never got tired of the adventures of the water babies, thrilled to have Francesca’s complete attention.

Hallie slid
The Water Babies
back on the shelf but it wouldn’t fit snugly into its place. Hallie put her hand in the empty space and felt a book spine pressed against the wood. She reached in and pulled out a notebook with a purple cover.

“Dear Diary” was written in cursive, and underneath, the words “Property of Francesca Playfair.” Hallie turned the notebook over carefully. Her mother never wrote more than cake recipes; what inspired her to keep a diary?

Hallie wanted to open it, yet she felt as though she was spying. But she couldn’t put it back on the shelf, even if it was just girlish scribble. She sat in the leather armchair, tucked her feet under her, and turned the page.

January 15, 1980

Dear Diary,

We are headed for Gstaad! I’m traveling with Dolly and Grazia and Mercedes and staying at Grazia’s parents’ chalet.

I have been at Madame Lille’s Ecole for four months and this is our first ski trip. The girls say Gstaad is wall-to-wall men; they come from Zurich and Geneva and Rome and they drive Ferraris and dress like movie stars.

I must put you away, Dear Diary, Grazia’s father’s chauffeur is waiting in his Bentley.

The next entry was dated a week later and began with a red heart.

January 22, 1980

Dear Diary,

I am in love! His name is Pliny Tesoro, he is a friend of Grazia’s brother, and he has dark skin and curly black hair. He wants to take me tobogganing tonight. He is so handsome, like Warren Beatty, I can’t believe he wants to go out with me!

Hallie glanced up as if expecting Sophia or Pliny to stride into the room. She turned to the next entry, promising herself she would read just a few more pages, until Sophia rang the bell for lunch.

January 22, 1980

Dear Diary,

We had to cancel our tobogganing; a blizzard has blown in, making the village look like a scene in a snow globe. Pliny is arriving in a few minutes and we are going to walk into the village and eat cheese and pumpernickel bread. Diary, he is so gorgeous! If he kisses me, I’m going to melt like a brand-new snowflake.

January 22, 1980

Dear Diary,

What a night! First we strolled the shops, and Pliny insisted on buying me a Courrèges ski suit and a pair of après-ski boots. I told him Constance gave me enough Swiss francs to paper my bedroom, but he said a gentleman always buys a lady gifts.

We went to a bistro and shared cheese fondue and apricot strudel and he told me about his villa in Lake Como. It has a private beach and swimming pool and its own chapel. He said he must take me there; we’ll jet ski on the lake and stroll along the promenade in Bellagio.

We walked back to the chalet and Mercedes was sitting in the parlor. She offered Pliny a cup of coffee and he was too polite to decline, so we sat and talked about the ski conditions. Finally I walked Pliny to the door and we stood outside and kissed. He is a wonderful kisser, I never wanted to stop! His lips are soft and he whispers in my ear in Italian.