Lake Como (18 page)

“I’ve flown three thousand miles to see you,” Peter pleaded, caressing her with his fingers.

“We’ll check you in to the Hotel Metropole. It’s just above the ferry terminal.”

“As long as you promise to join me after work.” Peter slipped his fingers deep inside her. He searched for the sweet spot, probing, working, until he felt her body tense and shudder.

“I will.” Hallie clung to his back, letting the long, delicious waves wash over her.

“And you don’t have to wear these,” Peter whispered, snapping the panties against her skin.

*   *   *

Hallie stood in her closet, selecting a dress to wear for dinner. She had been strangely nervous all day. She walked from room to room at the Villa Luce, questioning her design decisions. She didn’t eat lunch, and found herself in the kitchen in the late afternoon, eating Angus’s leftover risotto. She put the bowl back in the fridge, embarrassed that she ate his food without asking.

Angus had taken the boat to run errands and Hallie had the villa to herself. She wondered whether Max was upstairs or in Genoa. She had stopped asking Angus about meeting him. She was so wrapped up in creating the new space, she almost didn’t want outside influences. Except today, when she seemed to forget everything she learned in design school.

Hallie picked out a red Valentino with a heart-shaped neckline. She added small diamond earrings and a diamond-and-ruby bracelet. Peter liked her to wear red; he said it made her eyes glitter.

*   *   *

When she saw Peter standing in the salon, she had felt a rush of relief. She would tell him about Francesca’s diaries and he would know what to do. But as the day wore on, she doubted her decision. Peter was a journalist; he would want to learn the whole story. Hallie couldn’t risk him telling Constance or even Francesca before she was ready.

Returning to Bellagio on the evening ferry, Hallie probed her feelings about Peter. Her body had instantly welcomed him. He flipped a switch that made her greedy for his touch.

But Hallie felt a hardness inside her, like a coat of armor around her heart. Peter wanted to take her back to San Francisco where she would continue to be Hallie Elliot, and perhaps Hallie Merrick. She gazed at the narrow villages climbing up to the mountains, the majestic villas lining the shore, and felt like she had been sprinkled with fairy dust. Lake Como was magic and she wasn’t ready to leave its spell.

*   *   *

Hallie slipped on gold Prada sandals and grabbed a red Fendi clutch. She rubbed on lip gloss and ran down the staircase to the foyer.

“Hallie!” Pliny stood in the entryway. He wore brown linen slacks and a white silk shirt, and twirled a set of car keys in his hand. “I’m going to pick up the mayor of Bellagio. He’s joining us for dinner to discuss the dedication of the statue.”

“I have dinner plans tonight,” Hallie stammered. She hadn’t seen Pliny since she found the diaries. Her heart seemed to slow and her blood froze. He looked the same as he had yesterday: salt-and-pepper hair, chiseled cheeks, kind smile. But everything was different.

“Are you making friends in Lake Como?” Pliny inquired.

“A friend arrived from San Francisco.” Hallie blushed, picking a piece of lint from her dress. “He’s staying at the Hotel Metropole.”

“A male friend flew from America to see you,” Pliny mused. “Is it something serious?”

Hallie mumbled, “We’ve known each other a long time.”

“You will have to bring him to the villa,” Pliny suggested.

“He’s not staying long,” Hallie said. “He’s on his way to Paris.”

“Portia and Riccardo are moving back to their villa,” Pliny began. “Sophia is grateful to you, and so am I.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Hallie thought about Portia’s fears of being a mother, about Riccardo’s mistress. She prayed that Portia knew what she was doing.

“We want you to know that you are welcome to stay at the Villa Tesoro as long as you like,” Pliny finished.

“Thank you.” Hallie’s eyes filled with tears. She turned away, searching for something in her purse. “I have to go, I’m late.”

“You’re a beautiful young woman.” Pliny opened the front door. “Your mother must be proud.”

*   *   *

Peter was waiting for Hallie in the hotel lobby. He wore a white shirt and a narrow black tie. His short hair was brushed back and he was freshly shaved.

“You look gorgeous.” He kissed the side of her neck. “Like a European film star.”

“I’m thirsty,” Hallie replied. Suddenly it was all too much: Peter at her side as if they were grabbing a bite on Union Street, Pliny kind and courteous like a benevolent stranger. She wished she were with Portia in her bedroom, playing loud music and dancing on the bed like teenagers.

“I have a bottle of champagne waiting upstairs.” Peter guided her toward the elevator.

“I thought we were having dinner,” Hallie said. The hotel lobby was full of couples on holiday, sipping evening aperitifs. A smattering of Italians sat at the bar, talking quickly and popping nuts into their mouths.

“I have a surprise in the room.” Peter’s eyes sparkled.

Hallie followed Peter to the elevator. The hotel room was lit with candles and a table for two was set on the balcony. There were crystal champagne glasses, a silver ice bucket, and a vase holding a white lily.

“It’s beautiful.” Hallie sank into a chair. Peter poured her a glass of champagne, and she drank it quickly, the bubbles traveling straight to her toes.

“Not as beautiful as you.” Peter sat opposite her. He sprinkled ground pepper on her salad and tossed it in a Caesar dressing. “I had room service send everything in advance, so we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

Hallie ate mechanically, listening to Peter talk about
Spilled,
about the interview with the Apple programmer that might become a book.

“Speaking of books.” Peter got up and walked to his backpack. “I brought you a present.”

Hallie glanced at the thick book tied with a red ribbon. A photo of Paul Johns was on the front, and on the back, Peter’s author photo: young and handsome and brimming with confidence.

“It’s the seventh printing of
Paul Johns Unplugged,
” Peter explained. “It has a new dedication and a preface by Mark Zuckerberg.”

“That’s fantastic.” Hallie beamed. “I’m proud of you.”

“I was wrong wanting you to come home,” Peter said meditatively. He removed their salads and produced two plates of salmon and vegetables from the warmer. The salmon was covered in a light cream sauce and the vegetables were sweet and buttery. “We should rent a car and drive around the lake. Maybe drive over the mountains to Switzerland.”

“I’m working.” Hallie put down her fork. “And I thought you were chained to the magazine.”

“I hired a new editor.” Peter refilled their champagne glasses. “He just graduated from Berkeley and he’s brilliant. Kendra introduced me, he’s the son of one of her clients.”

“I thought you hadn’t seen Kendra in weeks.” Hallie’s fingers wound tightly around her glass.

“I ran into her at some society thing.” Peter shrugged. “The kid is amazing, like a young Carl Bernstein.”

“I’m really busy. It’s a huge project.”

“I didn’t come to interview some kids in a think tank, I came to see you.” Peter grabbed her hand across the table. “I’m going crazy without you. I can survive a few months, but you have to promise you’ll marry me.”

“Peter, I…” Hallie stammered.

Peter reached into his pocket and brought out the blue Tiffany box. “Put this on.” He opened it and took out the diamond-and-ruby ring. “In five months I’ll pick you up from San Francisco airport. We’ll drive to Constance’s and sift through her list of florists and caterers. We’ll pick out flatware and plan our honeymoon.”

“Peter.” Hallie pulled her hand back but he slipped the ring on her finger. He pulled her up and kissed her mouth and her neck. He brushed her breasts with his fingers and ran his hands down her thighs. He led her into the bedroom, closed the French doors, and dimmed the light.

Peter stood next to the bed, holding her, until Hallie felt her heart hammer in her chest. Then he slowly unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. He put his mouth on her nipple, his other hand curled around her waist. He laid her on the bed, whispering her name like a mantra.

Hallie watched Peter unbutton his shirt, pull off his tie, unzip his pants. She remembered the way his chest brushed against hers, the way he pinned her to the bed, his legs opening her thighs.

She remembered dozens of nights of lovemaking, mornings waking up to fresh coffee and eggs, weekends spent in bed reading the paper. She suddenly missed him with an ache so strong, she almost leaped off the bed and pulled him on top of her. But Peter just stood there, his eyes roaming over her body, his lips playing in a half smile.

Finally he lay on top of her, and entered her so quickly she thought she would break. He held her tightly, until her body quieted. Then he pulled her arms over her head, and pushed deeper, like a swimmer crossing the finishing line. His body moved in an invisible rhythm until she was caught up in it, shuddering and crying.

Later, when Peter was asleep, she tried to wriggle free. But his breathing was steady and his arm was tucked securely behind her back. Hallie lay, eyes wide open, staring at the diamond ring glinting on her finger.

When Hallie woke in the morning, Peter was gone. He left a note saying he was going for a run, signed with hearts and kisses. Hallie folded the note and slowly got dressed. She put the ring in its box and left it on the bedside table. She opened the French doors and sat on the balcony, watching Bellagio wake up below her.

Hallie felt lazy and satiated, like a cat who drank a bowl of warm milk. Making love to Peter had been so natural. Their bodies fit like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He knew how to make her soar, how to hold her afterward.

Hallie watched the ferries chug across the lake. She saw the mist clear, revealing Lenno and Tremezzo and Menaggio. She repeated the names of the villages, like lines in a nursery rhyme. She could live here, she could get to know her father, she could open a little design store in Como or Varenna.

Hallie didn’t know if that was what she wanted, but she didn’t know it wasn’t what she wanted. And she couldn’t string Peter along while she figured it out. She was like a lizard shedding her skin. Maybe the new Hallie would still be a California girl who loved shopping in Union Square, but maybe she would be happiest exploring Bellagio with Portia.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” Peter entered the room carrying a tray of scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and sliced honeydew. He wore running shorts and Nikes and had a wadded-up newspaper under his arm. “I don’t know how to say ‘sunny-side up’ in Italian.” He put the tray on the table.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then we can go back to bed and eat later.” Peter kissed her neck. “After we work up an appetite.”

“Peter, we can’t do this anymore,” Hallie said.

“Do what?” Peter frowned, spreading
The New York Times
on the table.

“Be together,” Hallie stammered.

“You’re wearing my ring!” Peter exclaimed. “We’re engaged.”

“I put it back in the box.” Hallie showed him her naked finger. “It’s on the bedside table.”

“You seemed happy wearing it last night,” Peter stormed. “You seemed pretty content drinking champagne and fucking like rabbits.”

“I might stay here a while.” Hallie’s eyes filled with tears. “Long-distance relationships don’t work.”

“I told you I can survive a few months.” Peter’s eyes narrowed.

“I might stay longer, I may move here.” Hallie fiddled with the pages of the newspaper.

“That’s crazy! Lake Como is for holidays. You have a job in San Francisco, family, me.”

“I have family here, and a job,” Hallie replied.

“Did you meet someone?” Peter demanded furiously. “Some Italian bastard with leather loafers and a red Maserati?”

“It’s no one.” Hallie shook her head. “It’s just me.”

“That’s the biggest cliché in the book.” Peter jumped up. “Christ, Hallie, we’re not teenagers. I thought you wanted to get married. I thought that’s why we attended more weddings this summer than Father Xavier.”

“I’m sorry,” Hallie murmured.

“You’re serious!” Peter shoved his clothes in his backpack. He stuffed the Tiffany box in his pocket and grabbed his passport from the bedside table. “Here.” He threw
Paul Johns Unplugged
on the table. “You might want to read the dedication.”

Hallie flinched as Peter slammed the door behind him. She watched him run down the promenade toward the ferry terminal. She saw him stand in line, buy his ticket, board the ferry. She waited to see if he would look back, but he stared straight ahead. Finally he sat on the bench, his body crumpling like a hand puppet.

Hallie turned the book over and glanced at Peter’s photo. She opened it and read the inscription:

To Hallie. A journalist’s job is to keep moving, chasing the next story. When I met you, I discovered what being home meant. You are everything to me, and none of it is worth anything without you.

Hallie read the words again. Then she closed the book, so the tears running down her cheeks wouldn’t ruin the pages.

chapter fourteen

Hallie entered the Villa Tesoro and closed the door quietly behind her. She didn’t want to run into Sophia or Pliny while wearing her red silk dress and Prada sandals. She crept past the library and heard voices arguing in Italian. She saw Sophia through the slit in the door, her face as pale as a statue, and Pliny gesturing like an orchestra conductor.

Hallie dragged herself up the stairs, still reeling from Peter’s angry departure. She felt like a tightrope walker whose safety net had been pulled from under her. She knew she had done the right thing, but her heart ached. She wanted to crawl into bed and sleep, until her eyes stopped misting over.

“Where have you been at eleven in the morning wearing red Valentino?” Portia demanded. She sat cross-legged on Hallie’s bed. Her hair was wound in a thick braid, and she wore a turquoise peasant skirt and silver sandals.