Lake Como (8 page)

“I didn’t say yes.”

“Did you and Peter have a disagreement?” Constance asked, reluctantly putting the phone down.

“Peter took me to dinner at Gary Danko and hid the ring in the coconut sorbet,” Hallie replied. “It’s an oval diamond flanked by rubies.”

“Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“Francesca’s marriage ended so badly,” Hallie began. “And now Portia and Riccardo.”

“It’s not about marriage, it’s about the person you marry,” Constance interrupted. “Your mother married a prince she met on a ski slope; they didn’t even speak the same language. Portia always had a wild streak. She had to learn the hard way that bad boys make terrible husbands.”

“I don’t want to make a mistake.” Hallie wanted to tell Constance about Patsy’s wedding, about Peter’s lunch date with Kendra, but the words stuck in her throat.

“When you were six I took you to a pet store to pick out a puppy. I was sure you would choose a sweet little cocker spaniel. He had floppy ears and a silky coat; he was the perfect dog for a young girl. But you marched right over to a cage that held a lanky golden retriever. He was already six months old, with paws as big as your hands. I asked why you chose the golden retriever and you said you were going to keep growing. One day you’d be the same size and be best friends.”

“Miles.” Hallie smiled, remembering. “He slept at the foot of my bed.”

“God took my Theodore early.” Constance lowered her eyes. “But we had thirty-five good years because he was my best friend. Marry your best friend and you’ll never have a single regret.”

Hallie drained her glass. She couldn’t tell Constance that Peter had shaken her trust; that she needed to put some distance between them. Suddenly Constance looked older; her shoulders hunched, her hand shook as she added ice to her gin and tonic.

“Portia and I are going to spend August gorging ourselves on fruit from the outdoor markets. We’ll buy shoes and bags in Milan, and visit the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. When I come home, Peter and I will announce our engagement.”

“I’ll host a Labor Day party!” Constance exclaimed. “It will have a white theme—white flowers, white food, the invitations will say white attire requested. We’ll hire Dick Bright Orchestra. It would be lovely to see people dancing again.”

Constance placed the lid on the jar of macadamia nuts and put the gin under the bar.

“You must stay for dinner. I’ll ask Louisa to set an extra place.”

“I’d love to.” Hallie noticed the sparkle in Constance’s eyes, the pink blush in her cheeks. “But I haven’t packed and I’m leaving in the morning.”

“You need two sets of clothes,” Constance instructed. “Cotton dresses for daytime and silk gowns for the evening. Sophia doesn’t allow women to wear pants in the villa, and you must wear at least two-inch heels at dinner.”

“Does she still keep such strict rules?” Hallie frowned. “She must be close to eighty.”

“Sophia Tesoro will be buried in a Marchioni gown, clutching a diamond cross,” Constance replied. “I would like you to give her something for me.”

Hallie waited while Constance disappeared into the library. She pictured the Tesoro villa and felt a pinprick of excitement. She remembered the gardens of roses and fruit trees, the rooms with stone floors and massive pieces of furniture, the view of the lake so intoxicating that it filled Hallie’s lungs like oxygen.

The last time Hallie visited Lake Como was six years ago for Portia’s wedding. It had been two weeks of nonstop celebration. They held lakeside picnics that started at breakfast and ended as the sun set behind the mountains. They attended all-night parties that featured clowns and acrobats, exotic birds in gilt cages, discos with glittering balls of light.

Hallie met racecar drivers, polo players, princes, and counts with names that seemed straight out of
Romeo and Juliet.
Young men with olive skin and green eyes whirled her around the dance floor and whispered poetry in her ear. They fed her profiteroles and poured Italian wines into crystal goblets.

“Antonio Picata wants to marry you,” Portia had said as they lay in Portia’s bedroom after a party that ended at dawn.

“He doesn’t speak a word of English. He talked with his hands all night.”

“Did you see his hands?” Portia had sighed, hugging her chest. “They were made for lovemaking.”

“You’re getting married in three days.” Hallie had smiled. “You shouldn’t be thinking about another man’s hands.”

“In Italy you never stop thinking about another man’s hands. That’s what keeps marriage alive. Every time Riccardo touches me I imagine he is a stranger; it sends shivers down my spine.”

“Americans are boring,” Hallie had murmured sleepily.

“Who wants a boring life?” Portia had sat up in bed. “You should move to Italy. You’ll marry a count and we’ll have speedboat races across the lake.”

“I just graduated from UCLA, I want to have my own design firm and create fabulous rooms clients adore,” Hallie had mumbled.

“You’ll get tired of working for other people.” Portia had waved her hand airily. “For Italians there are no sweeter words than ‘
la dolce vita.
’”

*   *   *

“
La dolce vita,
” Hallie said the words aloud as Louisa cleared the glasses.

Hallie would drag Portia out of her turret bedroom and they would swim and bicycle, hike and paddleboat, shop and walk along the promenade. Portia would kick and scream and curse Riccardo. Hallie would try to forget the scene at Patsy’s wedding and remember the things she loved about Peter: his curious mind, his bright, boyish charm.

Constance walked into the salon clutching a parcel wrapped in gold paper.

“Did you know Sophia has never been on an airplane?” Constance handed the package to Hallie. “She says she only wants to touch the clouds when she’s on her way to heaven.”

“Sophia probably arranged with the Pope for a private escort to bring her to the pearly gates.” Hallie turned the parcel over in her hand. It was a thick rectangle tied with red ribbon.

“She put your mother through the circles of hell, but that was decades ago.” Constance kissed Hallie on both cheeks. “Tell Peter to come for dinner on Sunday; we’ll miss you together.”

Hallie walked down the steps to her car. She peered up at Constance’s mansion. She could see the chandeliers twinkling behind velvet curtains and imagined Constance sitting down at the mahogany dining table. She tried to quiet the butterflies in her stomach. She was leaving Peter, Constance, her mother, and her job. She murmured, “
La dolce vita,
” and turned the car toward Russian Hill.

chapter five

Hallie stood in the arrivals terminal of the Milan airport, waiting for her luggage. It seemed like days since she boarded the plane in San Francisco. Francesca had driven her to the airport, ladening her with pastries for Portia and Sophia and a selection of baby clothes for Marcus’s wife, Angelica.

“Tell Marcus to call the minute the baby arrives.” Francesca hugged Hallie at the security check-in. “And give Angelica lots of hugs; at least I have one child whose life isn’t full of drama.”

“I can’t believe Marcus is going to be a father,” Hallie agreed, picturing a dark-haired baby with round fists and feet. Marcus managed the Tesoro business interests in Milan and his wife was newly pregnant.

“Tell Angelica to save the clothes for you.” Francesca squeezed Hallie’s hand. “In a couple of years you’ll need them.”

“I hope so.” Hallie blinked away tears. She refused to let Peter take her to the airport, and he barely glanced up from his laptop when she lugged her suitcase to the door. She put her bag in her mother’s Volkswagen and hugged the cake box against her chest.

*   *   *

Hallie watched her bag come off the carousel. Portia wanted to meet her in Milan but Hallie insisted she could get to Lake Como by herself. Suddenly she felt tired and alone. The Italian men and women resembled film stars with their glossy black hair and smooth olive skin.

Until Hallie landed in Rome, she felt chic and sophisticated. She wore yellow Kate Spade capris with a matching hoodie and flat Tory Burch sandals. She carried a cavernous Michael Kors tote and wore white Oliver Peoples sunglasses.

But stepping off the plane in Rome, Hallie felt like a teenager crashing her first adult cocktail party. The women wore pencil-thin skirts and carried Gucci clutches. Their skin glowed as if they emerged from a spa instead of an international flight.

Milan was worse. Hallie saw bright silk dresses that belonged on a runway and four-inch stilettos encrusted with jewels. The men wore shirts open to the waist and leather loafers without socks.

“Potrebbe aivatani con le valige?”
a man asked, pointing to her suitcase.

Hallie jumped. No one had spoken to her since the flight attendant announced their arrival in Milan.

“My Italian is rusty,” she apologized, shrugging her shoulders.

“Would you like help with your luggage?” the man asked in accented English. “You are too pretty to handle such a big suitcase.”

Hallie blushed. The man was tall, with curly black hair and black eyes. He had a dimple on his chin and carried a suit bag over his shoulder.

“No, thank you. I’m taking the shuttle bus to the train station.”

“I will take you to the train station.” The man rolled her bag toward the exit. “A shuttle bus is no place for a beautiful American.”

“Really, I’ve done it before.” Hallie ran after him. “I’m going to Lake Como to visit my half sister.”

“Ah, Como.” The man sighed. “A playground of miraculous beauty.”

“My grandmother has a villa there,” Hallie replied. “Sophia Tesoro.”

“I do business with Marcus Tesoro! I manufacture silk.” He unzipped his bag and extracted a silk scarf with a floral design. “You must have this, it brings out the blue in your eyes.”

“I can’t take it.” Hallie pushed the scarf into his hands.

“I insist.” The man draped it around her neck. “Here is my card. I am Alfonso Diamante. I will check you are wearing it the next time I am in Como.”

Hallie sat on the bus, the fine silk caressing her shoulders. She felt grimy from the long flight and unsettled by the encounter at the airport. She wasn’t used to talking to dark, handsome strangers. She tore up the card and stuffed the scarf into her suitcase. She closed her eyes, wishing Peter was in the seat next to her, and that she wore his oval diamond on her finger.

*   *   *

Sitting on the express train to Como, Hallie remembered why she wanted to travel alone to the villa. The scenery was so spectacular: the villages with tall church spires, the fields of brightly colored flowers, the green mountains capped with snow. Hallie didn’t want to miss a minute of it by conversing with Portia.

By the time Hallie arrived in Como, her jet lag was replaced by the excitement of being on holiday. Tourists chatted in German and French. They pointed out landmarks, craning their heads as the train pulled into the station.

Hallie jumped off the train and breathed the perfumed air. She could smell jasmine and roses and oleander. The cobblestoned streets baked under the noon sun and the lake glittered like a sheet of new pennies. Hallie rolled her suitcase toward the ferry, passing cafés and gelato stands.

The black and white boats sat in the harbor, waiting to take passengers to villages around the lake. Hallie was going to Bellagio, one of the most popular destinations. The line was full of families licking ice-cream cones, young lovers holding hands, nannies trying to round up their charges while the parents sipped a last aperitif in the bar next to the dock.

A red speedboat pulled up to the dock and a man jumped out. He had curly black hair peppered with gray and a sharp, angular chin. His eyes were pale blue and his profile belonged on a Roman statue. He wore silk shorts and a navy shirt and a gold cross hung around his neck. He took off his sunglasses and searched the terminal, suddenly waving at Hallie.

“Pliny?” Hallie squinted in the sun. She dragged her suitcase to the side to get a closer look. The speedboat was built like a bullet, sharp and snub-nosed, and it had the Tesoro crest painted on the side.

“Sophia sent me to pick you up.” Pliny made a little bow. “No guest of the Tesoros arrives in Bellagio by passenger ferry.”

“You didn’t have to.” Hallie slipped out of the line. “I like playing tourist.”

“Sophia is pleased you are here.” Pliny grabbed Hallie’s suitcase. “She thinks you will talk some sense into Portia.”

“Me?” Hallie let Pliny help her into the speedboat. Pliny started the motor and Hallie sat back against the soft leather upholstery.

“Constance told Sophia you have a good head on your shoulders,” Pliny said in careful English. “I am glad you are here, too, you have grown into a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you,” Hallie mumbled, letting her hair cover her cheeks so Pliny wouldn’t see her blush.

She glanced at Pliny curiously, trying to imagine Pliny and Francesca together. There were fines lines around his eyes and mouth, but Hallie could imagine him as the young man on the ski slope. She pictured Francesca falling in fresh powder and looking up to see an Italian prince offering her his hand.

“It is very difficult for Sophia,” Pliny explained over the roar of the engine. “They are about to erect a statue of my great-grandfather in the Piazza San Giacomo. Sophia has worked on this for many years; the bishop and the cardinal have given it their blessing.”

“How wonderful!” Hallie exclaimed.

“A scandal involving Portia and Riccardo could ruin everything.” Pliny’s eyebrows knotted together.

“It’s not Portia’s fault Riccardo left her,” Hallie said doubtfully. She wasn’t used to talking to Pliny. At Portia’s wedding he had been busy toasting the bride, and on her previous visit she and Portia had been teenagers trying to stay beneath his radar.

“Italy is different from America,” Pliny replied. “Men are never at fault.”

“That’s Victorian!” Hallie bristled.

“That is the way it is.” Pliny shrugged. “Sophia hopes you will convince Portia to take Riccardo back.”

“Don’t you want Portia to be happy?” Hallie asked.