Seeking Sara Summers (7 page)

Sara returned to her seat and shortly afterwards the jet began its descent. The pilot spoke a few sentences, first in Italian, then in English, telling them the time and weather in Milan and wishing them a pleasant stay in Italy. Was she really going to Italy?

As a third grader she had done a geography report on Italy citing their imports and exports, among other things, and drawing a large map of the country that looked like a boot. Something about it had captured her imagination, even then. I’ll go there someday, she had thought at the time. It was as clear and tangible a thought as she had ever had.

“Could you please stop that?” the businessman said. They were the first words he had spoken to Sara the entire flight.

“Excuse me?”

He motioned to her hand. Without realizing it, Sara had been tapping her nails against the arm rest. A nervous habit she had indulged in since high school, when she had finally stopped chewing her nails and grown them out.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize....”

He grunted and reached for an airline magazine in front of him.

“I’m visiting an old friend,” Sara said. “Actually, I’m surprising her. She has no idea I’m coming to her art opening. But I guess I’m more nervous than I thought.”

He turned a page, not looking at her.

“We haven’t seen each other in almost thirty years,” Sara continued, this time hoping to irritate him. She was nothing to him, a mere gnat whizzing around his head.

He turned another page. His disinterest did little to curb her excitement.

After a reasonably smooth landing passengers unloaded overhead compartments and began their migration through screening and customs. Like cattle directed through various chutes, they eventually ended up in baggage claim, where the same stream of rumpled passengers moved toward the exits. Outside the airport Sara was swept into a tide of activity. Animated Italians greeted loved ones. People stood like statues peering up at a large board of constantly updated flight information. The numbers and letters flickered past like a giant slot machine. She rolled her luggage out the front entrance and followed signs to the Autobus, which would take her to the train station.

I am in Italy,
she kept telling herself.
This is an Italian expressway. This is an Italian billboard. We are passing Italians on their way to work.
Everything felt novel.

Fifty minutes later she had arrived at the train station. Despite Italy’s consideration for the tourist trade, the station was confusing. On a website Sara had learned of pickpockets who preyed on befuddled tourists. At that moment she felt like the epitome of befuddlement.

Sara stood in a long line and bought a fare to Florence at the ticket counter from a helpful young man who spoke English. A loudspeaker constantly announced arrivals and departures in a language she couldn’t understand. It took several seconds to decipher the track number from the electronic schedule and then Sara walked up the two flights of stairs to get to the tracks.

The family from the plane was ahead of her, the girl’s hand securely in the hand of her mother. Sara felt like a child, too, at that moment. Someone who needed a hand to hold onto in such unfamiliar territory. She quickened her pace to catch up with them.

“Excuse me,” Sara said to the father. “Are you going to Florence?”

“Yes, Firenze,” he said.

“I am, too,” Sara said, her excitement revealing her nervousness.

The crowd carried them along as they spoke.

“Have you been to Florence before?” the mother asked.

For the first time Sara noticed how young she was. Maybe just a little older than Jess.

“No, I haven’t,” Sara said. “It’s my first trip to Europe.”

“Oh, you’ll love it,” the father said. “This is Elizabeth’s first trip abroad, too.” He put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. She smiled at him. The man’s hair was gray at the temples. He looked old enough to have grown children himself. Was this his second family? Sara wondered if Grady would get married again and start another family if Sara were out of the picture.

“Be sure and stamp your ticket,” the man said to her.

Sara followed his lead and stamped her train ticket in the yellow box beside the tracks. They approached the train and she lifted her luggage up the steps. She had packed and repacked the bag to weigh less than 20 pounds as the websites suggested, but it was still heavy. The exertion triggered a twinge of tenderness underneath her blouse, stretching the scar that remained. In her excitement she had almost forgotten the cancer that had decided to return for a second act. But she challenged herself to put that aside for now and enjoy herself.

The family found their seats in the first section as Sara found her seat further back. The conductor made his way down the aisle. When he reached Sara he smiled, winked and validated her ticket without taking his eyes from hers. Were the stereotypes true? Sara wondered. She smiled and looked away.

The train traveled through the industrial section of Milan before entering the flat, Italian countryside. Buildings were the color of the land, made with stone. Terra-cotta roofs and balconies graced every apartment building. Farmhouses in the distance rested amidst green and brown patchwork squares of land, tilled for centuries.

They stopped in small towns where more people boarded and others departed. Sara took it all in, trying to imagine what it would be like to live there and ride the train to work or school. With every stop Sara was aware of getting closer to Julia.

Three hours later she arrived at the train station in Florence with luggage and jet lag in tow, she walked through the ornate train station out into the streets of Florence. Sara stopped and stood in the middle of the square taking in the ancient city around her. “I made it,” she said to herself. She smiled. In a rare moment, she felt proud of herself. She stood tall and breathed in the Italian air. Pigeons landed at her feet, as if she were a new statue to explore. When she moved, they cooed their surprise and flew away in unison.

Sara approached a taxi waiting near the train station. The driver quickly got out and lifted her luggage into the trunk. She showed him the piece of paper that confirmed her hotel and gave the address. He smiled and nodded. They traveled through the congested, narrow streets of Florence, sharing the road with an enormous number of scooters, Fiats, and pedestrians. The driver deftly maneuvered his way through the maze of streets and spoke like he drove, with very little pause. It hardly mattered that Sara couldn’t understand a word. His monologue played in the background like a radio. Too excited and exhausted to fear for her life, Sara gripped the back seat and leaned into the corners of the cab with every curve.

A traffic light halted their progress. Sara caught her breath. The light changed. The driver accelerated quickly, swerving to miss a startled pedestrian. His dialogue became more animated, as Sara could only guess he held the pedestrian at fault. Well, I wanted an adventure, she thought. They took an immediate right before coming to an abrupt halt in front of a beautiful old hotel. The brass numbers on the outside matched the address on the paper she held in her hand. The driver pointed at the doorway and smiled. Despite the short, harrowing drive from the train station, he appeared completely devoid of stress. Sara gave him the appropriate euros and what she hoped was an appropriate tip. The driver thanked her, handed her luggage to the porter and drove away.

The photos on the internet had not done the hotel justice. It was exquisite. “Thank you, Mimi,” Sara said under her breath. The room was spotless and filled with Italian antiques. She looked out her window that overlooked the Arno River.

Sara sat on the bed and took the invitation from her purse. She had four hours before Julia’s opening. She had cut it close. Would Julia be happy to see her? At that moment she didn’t really care. She set the alarm on her cell phone and lay down on the bed for a short nap. Within minutes sleep had finally claimed her.

It was dusk when the alarm went off and her jet-lagged body felt heavy when she rose. She showered and dressed in a simple black dress with a lightweight taupe shawl covering her shoulders, meant to hide the contours of her chest. Reconstructive surgery would have to wait until she returned, but for now she had pulled off looking halfway elegant.

Sara had the hotel call a cab and gave the driver the address on the invitation. This driver seemed in less of a hurry and Sara relaxed in the back seat. Florence was beautiful at night. Lights lit up large fountains in nearly every square. Balcony after balcony was filled with flowers and light.

The taxi arrived at the small gallery and she paid the driver and got out. For several seconds she stood outside taking a series of deep breathes, an exercise she taught her drama students to overcome stage fright. The gallery was crowded with people smiling and laughing and speaking a language Sara could not even begin to understand. The scene took on a surreal quality, considering that the day before she had been mopping floors, doing the laundry and sorting Grady’s boxer shorts. She had wanted to leave the house in pristine condition in the event that her plane went down and she didn’t return. It was her version of a mother’s warning to wear clean underwear in the event of an accident.

Thinking of home made Sara’s new-found courage falter. She turned to look for the cab that had dropped her off. But the narrow street was empty. She peered through the window to try to catch a glimpse of Julia. A tall man, impeccably dressed, gestured for her to come inside. Sara smiled awkwardly and stepped into the gallery. He handed her a glass of wine from a nearby tray and said something to her in Italian.

She thanked him.

“Oh, you’re American,” the man said. His English was as impeccable as his manner. “Are you a friend of Julia’s?”

“Yes, I am,” Sara said.

He smiled. “She’s in the back, greeting her admirers.” He motioned to the back of the gallery.

“I guess I’ll go get in line then,” Sara said.

“By the way, I’m Roger,” the man said. “I guess you could call me a friend, too.”

“Nice to meet you, Roger.” Sara smiled and held up her wine glass in a quick salute. “I’m Sara.”

He bowed. “Nice to meet you, Sara.”

The crowd in the back erupted in laughter. Sara caught a glimpse of the woman that stood in the center of the crowd. Past and present collided. Her heartbeat quickened a bit. All eyes were on her old friend as if she were a queen among commoners. She hasn’t changed a bit, Sara thought. She asked Roger to excuse her and made her way toward the back. Everyone there was dressed in various renditions of black evening wear.

As Sara approached, she caught brief glimpses of the woman of the hour. Sara compared these glimpses to the girl she had once known. Her laugh was the same, as was her smile. Her long hair was pulled away from her face. Julia had always worn her hair long. Sara took a moment to run a hand through her short curls.

Sara was eight feet away but Julia’s back was to her. She debated what to say.
Hi, Julia. Remember me?
Or maybe she should call her Jules, the nickname she had given her as a girl. She feared an awkward exchange as she remembered their phone call weeks before. If their meeting was a repeat of that phone call, Sara would be mortified; forced to climb under an Italian rock somewhere to hide her humiliation.

Sara stepped closer. She was close enough to smell Julia’s perfume. Julia spoke to someone about her work, pointing to a canvas on the closest wall. Her Italian, from what Sara could tell was like a native and she appeared totally at ease in her surroundings.

What am I doing here? Sara thought. She was totally out of her league. She was used to mingling with teachers and soccer moms, not artists and Florentine elite. Not to mention that she was a one-breasted cancer survivor. Survivor being a relative term. She glanced toward the entrance to plan her get-away. Thirty steps, maybe forty and she could be out of there. Sara turned toward the door just as Julia pivoted toward her. Their eyes met. Julia smiled to acknowledge her, a presumed stranger and possible admirer. But then her expression changed. Julia’s smile widened. “Sara? Is that you?”

CHAPTER SIX

Julia’s smile evaporated any fear Sara had had about their meeting.

“Oh, Sara, what a surprise! It’s so good to see you!”

“You, too,” Sara said.

They embraced.
Had it really been nearly thirty years?
A scent of wildflowers permeated Julia’s clothing and her hair. Sara breathed her in, as if taking a hit of oxygen after being depleted for years. Julia had aged, of course, but at the same time had become more beautiful. Was that even possible?

“I can’t believe you came,” Julia said.

She stepped back to look at Sara again. Julia took Sara’s hand and Sara felt giddy; drunk with the knowledge that Julia was happy to see her.

“How did you get here?” Julia asked.

“The usual way,” Sara said. She flapped her arms like wings and instantly blushed her embarrassment. “Sorry,” she said. “I could get the Pulitzer for being lame these days.”

“Don’t be silly,” Julia said. “I always loved your sense of humor.”

Julia had not stopped smiling and Sara had to divert her eyes to withstand the attention.

“It means so much to me that you came,” Julia said. “Is Grady here, too?” She quickly scanned the crowd.

“No, he’s at home,” Sara said.

Julia asked where she was staying and Sara told her. “Very upscale,” Julia said. “But I insist you stay with me. I have a great little place and then we’ll have time to catch up.”

The owner of the gallery apologized for the interruption and spoke to Julia.

“He wants me to meet someone interested in buying one of my paintings,” Julia told her. “Don’t go anywhere. We have so much to talk about.”

Sara watched Julia be whisked away and turn on the charm with the potential buyers. She could sell anything, Sara thought. She had even sold Sara on staying with her. But this was something Sara didn’t mind being sold on.