Lake Como (6 page)

“Hallie, stop.” Peter grabbed her hand. “I love you. I want to marry you.”

“And you’re both excellent liars.” Hallie stood up. She slipped out of the booth and ran to the door.

“You have to believe me.” Peter followed her outside. “I can’t live without you.”

Peter grabbed her and squeezed her shoulders. He pulled her face to his and kissed her hard on the mouth. Hallie tasted wine and sorbet. She felt his chest shielding her from the fog.

“I don’t know what to believe.” Hallie pulled away and ran down the street.

“Wait!” Peter called desperately. “I have to pay the bill.”

Hallie ran until Peter’s voice was swallowed up by the fog and she could only hear her heels clicking on the sidewalk.

*   *   *

Hallie ran four blocks before she realized she didn’t know where she was going. She couldn’t face Peter back at the apartment. She couldn’t go to her grandmother’s. Constance thought the world of Peter. It would break her heart to see chinks in his armor. Hallie checked the money in her purse. She flagged a cab and gave the driver her mother’s address.

Hallie buzzed Francesca’s apartment and waited. Francesca was probably at the bakery. She shared a commercial kitchen with another baker and rarely came home before ten o’clock. Other single women relaxed with an episode of
CSI
and a bowl of popcorn. Francesca’s idea of fun was making buttercream rosettes.

Hallie let herself in and climbed the three floors to her mother’s apartment. The living room had wood floors and plaster walls. A floral sofa faced a bookshelf lined with cookbooks. The oak dining table was heaped with bills. A coffee cup was left on the table, making a ring on the wood. Hallie took it into the kitchen, depositing it in the sink.

Hallie sat on a stool, gazing at the brightly colored jars and containers. The counters were crammed with ingredients: brown sugar, honey, cinnamon, molasses. There were baskets of fresh peaches and bowls of strawberries. Everything in the kitchen would eventually end up in a cake. Francesca stockpiled ingredients like a squirrel hoarding nuts. She wore jeans and sneakers and splurged on imported vanilla extract.

Hallie finally let the tears come. They rolled down her cheeks, falling on the counter. She rocked back and forth, hugging her chest. She cried until her body felt like it would fold up like a pack of cards. Exhausted, she got up and walked into the living room.

Hallie and Francesca moved into the apartment when Hallie was in high school. Hallie had loved jogging on the green, watching the boats in the marina, but she missed the glittering rooms of Constance’s house. Hallie found tables and chairs at garage sales and brightened them up with tablecloths and pillows. She painted the walls eggshell yellow and sewed lace curtains for the windows.

Francesca had acted more like a sister than a mother. On Friday nights, if Hallie didn’t have a date, they painted each other’s toenails. On Sundays they put on matching aprons and prepared dinner. Hallie tossed spinach salad and Francesca baked German chocolate cake.

Hallie wished for a moment she had a mother who would smooth her hair and promise her everything would be all right. She wanted a father who would hold her and tell her Peter wasn’t worth crying about.

Hallie never knew her father. When she was nine years old, Francesca had found Hallie in Constance’s kitchen, piling brownies on a plate.

“What are you doing?” Francesca had asked, frowning.

Hallie had stood on a stepstool, straining to reach the top shelf in the fridge. “Jenny’s mother said I’m illegitimate and I’m going to burn in hell. I’m going to bring God some brownies so he forgives me.”

“Sit down.” Francesca had motioned for Hallie to sit at the kitchen table.

“What does illegitimate mean? Didn’t you get a receipt for me at the hospital?”

“Illegitimate means you were more loved and wanted than any baby in the world.”

“Jenny said illegitimate means I don’t know who my father is. She says my father must be a pirate or a pop star.” Hallie had inspected her nails. She had bitten her fingernails to the quick and covered them with bright pink nail polish.

“Your father was a student named Phillip Elliot.” Francesca had nibbled a brownie. She had dark brown hair and large brown eyes. Her hair was cut short to frame her face and she had thick, curly eyelashes. The only features she shared with Hallie were a small nose and a round, rosebud mouth.

“That’s my last name!” Hallie had chimed in.

“We met in Rome, when I was returning to America. I was very sad because I had to leave Portia and Marcus, and I spent a whole day crying at the Trevi Fountain.”

Hallie had chewed her fingernail, waiting expectantly for the rest of the story.

“Phillip was a few years older than me, maybe twenty-five. He was backpacking across Europe, studying architecture. We spent the day together, exploring the Vatican, running down the steps of the Coliseum. I felt young and free, and by nighttime I was in love with him.”

“You fell in love in one day?” Hallie had tried to remember if any of the heroines of her books fell in love so quickly.

“That can happen if you meet the right person.” Francesca had smiled. “It started pouring, buckets and buckets flooding the sidewalk. We huddled under his backpack, trying to hail a taxi. But everyone was stranded and there were no cabs.”

“I read about a flood in Sunday school. Noah led the animals on the ark two-by-two.”

“We didn’t have an ark, but there was a little pensione near the Coliseum. We ran in to wait out the storm.”

“Is that where I was born?” Hallie had asked.

“It was where you were conceived,” Francesca had murmured. “Phillip and I stayed up all night, talking. He was very handsome: tall, curly blond hair, pale blue eyes. My flight left in the morning and he was on his way to Pompeii. We exchanged phone numbers and kissed good-bye.”

“Why didn’t you marry him?” Most of her friends had parents who were married. A few had parents who were divorced and they met their fathers every Sunday at Pizza Hut or McDonald’s. Hallie had wondered if she could meet Phillip at McDonald’s and get one of those Happy Meal dolls with a pink miniskirt and straw hair.

“I was still married to Pliny and I was on my way home. It was complicated.”

“Why didn’t you marry him later, when it was simple?” Hallie had asked.

“We lost touch.” Francesca had shrugged. “We didn’t have the Internet or e-mail.”

“I knew my father was special. Jenny’s jealous because her father smells like garlic.”

“Plus you have a grandmother who adores you and a half brother and half sister in Italy.” Francesca had stood up and took a carton of milk from the fridge.

“It’s like we have our own ark!” Hallie had beamed. “Can I ask Constance for a goat or a pig?”

“I don’t think they allow goats in the city.” Francesca had poured Hallie a glass of milk. “But you might ask for a guinea pig.”

“I’ll name him P. Elliot,” Hallie had decided. “Do you think God would mind if I ate the brownies?”

“I think they were put in the fridge for that purpose.” Francesca had put a brownie on a plate and passed it to Hallie.

*   *   *

The love story of Francesca and Phillip made Hallie popular at school, but sometimes she wished she had a father who smelled like garlic and asked her to pass the peas at dinner.

When Peter came home from cycling he was covered in sweat, but Hallie loved to bury her face in his chest. She didn’t mind stocking the fridge with pretzels and beer nuts. She liked the masculine traces he left around the apartment: an
Esquire
on the coffee table, blobs of shaving cream in the bathroom sink.

“Hallie!” Francesca opened the door and entered the living room. She wore faded jeans and a pastel sweater. Francesca was slender as a boy, with small breasts and narrow hips. She never seemed to care how she dressed, but she had an innate sophistication. Even in her frayed sneakers, she looked casually elegant.

“I let myself in.” Hallie slumped on the sofa. She had slipped off her Ferragamos and tucked her feet under the cushion.

“What a beautiful dress.” Francesca set a pink cake box on the coffee table. “I’m glad you took after Constance instead of me in fashion. You have such a classic style, like a young Grace Kelly.”

Hallie tried to smile. Her head felt heavy and there was a pain deep in her chest. “Peter took me to dinner at Gary Danko.”

“I adore their lemon soufflé cake, I can’t make mine as fluffy.” Francesca dropped onto the sofa. She moved with the ease of a dancer. Only the streaks of gray in her hair hinted that she had three grown children.

“Peter proposed.” Hallie tried to keep her voice steady.

“That’s wonderful!” Francesca beamed. “You’ve been planning your wedding since you were eight years old. Do you remember when you used to walk your My Little Ponies down the aisle? And the year you wrote three letters to Santa Claus asking for a bride Barbie, in case there was a blizzard and your first letter didn’t make it to the North Pole?”

“I still have bride Barbie,” Hallie mumbled. “She has her own drawer in my dresser.”

“Have you told Constance?” Francesca asked. “Finally she’ll get to plan her dream wedding. Try to remind her it’s your day.”

“There’s not going to be a wedding,” Hallie murmured.

Francesca paused. “You can’t elope. It would break your grandmother’s heart.”

“Peter and I aren’t getting married.” Hallie felt like she was pushing the words up a steep hill.

“You’ve been talking about getting married all summer,” Francesca protested. “All those weddings you attended, all the bridal showers and gift registries. You said you were prepping for your own big day.”

“I thought Peter was going to propose.” Hallie flinched. She remembered the espresso makers and panini presses, the sets of Waterford china and Christofle silverware. Each time she walked into Gump’s she drooled over the Swarovski crystal, and added a piece to the gift registry she kept in her head.

“And he did propose,” Francesca said slowly, as if Hallie had the flu and needed to be coaxed into taking her medicine. “Did you say yes?”

Hallie nodded, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

“Let me see the ring!” Francesca brightened. “Knowing Peter, he bought up Tiffany.”

“I gave it back.” Hallie sobbed. She put her head in her hands and recited the whole story: Kendra tearing at Peter’s tuxedo jacket on the steps of City Hall, Peter’s hands on Kendra’s skirt. The fake interview with Marissa Mayer, the diamond-and-ruby ring in the sorbet, and Peter’s old school friend, Rex Meany.

“Rex asked Peter for Kendra’s phone number,” Hallie cried, wiping her eyes with her skirt.

Francesca opened the cake box and took out a pink-and-yellow marzipan mouse. She admired the pointed ears and sharp nose. “Peter might be telling the truth.”

“What do you mean?” Hallie frowned.

“I’ve seen a bride run down a hotel lobby in stockings and a push-up bra. I’ve seen the mother of the bride sing ‘Unforgettable’ while doing a striptease. People behave worse at weddings than they do in Vegas.” Francesca paced around the room, warming to her point. “Kendra was plastered and Peter was trying to be a gentleman.”

“She says she doesn’t remember the whole evening,” Hallie murmured.

“And Kendra does have exquisite taste in jewelry,” Francesca mused.

“Peter lied about the interview with Marissa Mayer.” Hallie leaned back against the cushions. “He could lie about anything.”

“Everyone lies a little, I bet even the Pope shades the truth now and then.” Francesca nibbled the mouse’s nose. “Has Peter ever hurt you?”

“No.” Hallie shook her head. “He treats me like a goddess.”

“When Portia met Riccardo he was engaged to another woman.” Francesca took another mouse out of the cake box and handed it to Hallie. “He was seeing both women at the same time. It’s no surprise he cheated on Portia; men rarely change.”

“Poor Portia.” Hallie bit into pink icing. “I keep calling but I can’t get through to her.”

“I suggested Portia come to America,” Francesca replied. “But Sophia is afraid if Portia disappears, Riccardo will flaunt his mistress in public.”

“Constance thinks you should go see Portia,” Hallie replied. The marzipan was sweet and smooth and slipped past the lump in her throat.

Francesca took another marzipan mouse out of the box and held it in her palm. “You should go! You know the expression ‘When the cat is away, the mice will play.’” She nodded at the pink-and-yellow mouse excitedly. “If Peter behaves while you’re away, you’ll know you can trust him.”

“How will I know if he’s cheating?” Hallie asked.

“San Francisco is a small town,” Francesca replied. “We’ll know.”

“I couldn’t go to Lake Como.” Hallie sighed. She remembered the first time she visited, the summer after she graduated from St. Ignatius. She had seen pictures of the lake. She read about the splendid villas and ancient churches. Portia had told her about the cafés, the boutiques, the cute boys who rode vespas around the village.

But she wasn’t prepared for the breathtaking beauty of the mountains sweeping down to the shore. She had never seen water a blue-green so glorious it belonged on a painting. She had never experienced the Italian love of life, the late dinners, the early-morning espressos, the feeling that life was one big happy party.

“Why not?” Francesca demanded. “Constance is right, it would be great for Portia to have company.”

“Kendra would never let me take time off,” Hallie replied. “We’re inundated with new clients.”

“Kendra knows that Constance sits on every important board in the city.” Francesca picked her words carefully. “If members of Encore! or the Symphony Gala heard about Kendra’s ‘public stumble’ they may think twice about hiring her as a designer.”

“How Machiavellian.” Hallie giggled.

“I may not have been the best mother when it came to homework and being a member of the PTA”—Francesca sat next to Hallie—“but you’re my baby and I want you to be happy.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t get married.” Hallie suddenly felt like a little girl, wanting to climb into her mother’s lap. “You hated being a wife.”