The Gilder (31 page)

When Marina reached Piazza Santa Croce, she sat down on a bench and thought back on her confrontation with Sarah in the studio. Sarah had asked that fateful question—why hadn’t she stopped Thomas. And, while she sensed that Sarah accepted inebriation as her excuse, Marina knew better. Finally, the nagging uncertainty at the back of her mind had found its voice. The fact was, she hadn’t stopped Thomas because she hadn’t tried. Yes, the wine had played its role, but she now realized that a part of her that day had imagined that allowing Thomas to be intimate somehow brought her closer to Sarah. On the face of it, this insight sounded ridiculous, but she recognized it as the truth of a young, confused girl, one of the few truths to have survived the journey of lies. It didn’t, by any means, excuse her behavior, but it did help make sense of it, if only to her. Suddenly, a terrible thought gripped her. Had she tried on Thomas the same way she’d tried on Sarah’s dress? Marina squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back the tears. No! She had not pursued Thomas, nor had she been frivolous about any aspect of what had happened. She inhaled this truth and allowed it to spread through her body, relaxing muscle and nerve. She wiped her eyes and looked up at the church’s beautiful façade. Could she possibly explain any of this to Sarah without sounding arrogant or delusional? Marina stood up and crossed the piazza in the direction of Anita’s.

Across from the restaurant, a small parking area overflowed with mopeds of every make, model, and color, the lights from the restaurant reflecting off shiny new fenders and illuminating rusty ones. Marina crossed the street and squeezed between two large terra-cotta pots on the terrace and peered into the rear dining room. It was empty. According to her watch it was still too early for dinner, but Sarah might have come in search of Anita’s counsel. Marina wasn’t sure she wanted to face the two of them together, but it was too late to turn back. She followed the sidewalk around to the front window just in time to see Anita disappear into the kitchen. There was no sign of Sarah. Marina hesitated a moment, then pushed the door open to the faint sound of a buzzer back in the kitchen. As she crossed the threshold, it occurred to her that she would have to explain herself in Anita’s mother tongue, and her Italian was not what it had once been. The refresher courses she took every couple of years when the urge seized her never seemed to refresh anything but her bad grammar.

Anita came out of the kitchen with a dishtowel in her hands and a scowl on her face, but much to Marina’s relief, she smiled and opened her arms at the sight of her. Marina allowed herself the embrace, then followed Anita into the kitchen, where she introduced her to two heavyset women who, if Marina understood correctly, were her sisters-in-law. Following smiles and handshakes, the two women turned back to their chopping and stirring while Anita opened a bottle of wine and filled two glasses. The last thing Marina wanted at that point was a round of polite chitchat, but there was no gracious way to extract herself without a few sips of wine. Anita wanted to know if she was enjoying her time in Florence, did she think it had changed, how was the conference going, and so on, and while Marina had little trouble understanding her, forming a response was another matter, however encouragingly Anita nodded and smiled. After ten minutes of questions and answers and two photographs of Zoe, Marina was able to ask if Anita had seen Sarah, to which she replied that she had not but surely would sooner or later.

Finally, Marina excused herself and headed in the direction of the river, wishing she had a bicycle. It was a twenty-minute walk to Sarah’s studio, and the sooner she got there, the sooner it would be over—one way or the other. Her determination was now tinged with anger. After all these years, would there be no resolution? She had always imagined that some sort of conciliatory scene would follow her confession. Perhaps not immediate forgiveness, but she’d make Sarah see that she hadn’t meant any of this to happen, convince her of how impossible it had been for her to come forth with the truth after it happened, and how it only became more impossible with each passing year. But the closer she got to the studio, the more her conviction flagged. What exactly was she hoping to accomplish? If Sarah was willing to talk to her, it would probably be only to rake her over the coals. Did she really need to submit herself to that? She could flagellate herself quite nicely without anyone’s help.

In the lull between the end of the workday and the dinner hour, the streets around Piazza Santo Spirito were deserted. Light from apartment windows cast sharp-toothed shadows through the trees, creating a jagged, chiaroscuro path across the piazza. Marina made her way to the pockmarked building and was spared the routine with the doorbells when she found the street door ajar. For the second time that day, she climbed to the top floor. There were no sounds coming from the studio; even with her ear against the door, she heard nothing. She knocked, and since no other apartments shared that floor, she called out loudly. Finally, after a few minutes of no response, she pounded on the door with her fist, then burst into tears. Putting her back to the door, she slid down until cold stone met the seat of her pants. She hugged her legs, resting her forehead on her knees, and sobbed. Here she was back where it had all begun, almost sixteen years ago. How could she have come so far only to find herself weeping at the door of a previous lifetime? What did her accomplishments mean if the people she loved were in pain? For the first time in a long time, she wanted her mother. She wanted her in a way she’d never been allowed to want her—as the nurturing, forgiving mother who would hold her and tell her she wasn’t the awful creature that she imagined herself to be, who would reassure her that life went on, that people healed, that mistakes were made, and it was never too late to make amends. But the mother she had would say: “If it doesn’t kill you, it will make you strong.” Marina wiped her face with her hands, took the note from her bag, and slipped it under the door. Sarah could be anywhere. If not here ignoring her knocks, she might be with Marcello, or even sitting in Anita’s kitchen, telling her a story of deceit and betrayal. What was there to do now but make her presentation and go home?

Marina had lost track of how many times she’d crossed the river in the last couple of days, but this was the first time she’d seen it so still. Downriver, where the black ribbon of water turned and disappeared from sight, the sunset had faded to pale pink. At the crest of the bridge Marina stopped, and breathing in the sight, her heart uncurled from the crumpled knot it had been all afternoon and the tension in her chest and neck eased. She glanced one last time toward Santo Spirito, then turned her back and made her way toward the heart of the city.

CHAPTER 16

M
arina lay on the bed in her pajamas, the telephone resting on her belly. A half-empty bottle of wine and the remnants of her supper sat on the table by the window. She’d been exhausted by the time she arrived back at the hotel, but was determined to stay up to call Zoe. She’d eaten dinner, taken a long bath, shaved her legs, and washed her hair in an effort both at renewal and to pass the time. She watched the phone rise and fall on her stomach, and when she couldn’t wait a moment longer, dialed Lydia’s number, only to find that Zoe and Sasha had gone to a movie and sleepover.

“I’m so sorry, Marina. If I’d known you’d call again I’d have kept Zoe home, but after last night ...” Lydia sounded truly distressed.

“Zoe didn’t tell you she left me a message this morning?”

“At your hotel? No, she didn’t say a thing.”

“She left a message saying she was sorry and wanted me to come home.”

“She did? That’s wonderful! I thought there was something lighter about her today, but I didn’t want to read anything into it. You must be thrilled.”

Marina smiled. “I am. I cannot wait to get all this behind me, and come home. Today ...”

“Listen,” Lydia interrupted, “I need to give you a heads-up. About Peter.”

“Peter?” Marina shifted the phone to the bed and wriggled into a seated position. “What’s up with Peter? Is he okay?”

“He’s been mooning around our house again. You know how he gets when he’s falling for someone.”

At another time in her life, Marina would have rolled her eyes and said something like, “What’s the current flavor, blonde or brunette?” And she and Lydia would commiserate about how he needed to settle down with a good woman. But now she was surprised and a little disappointed. She’d just seen him. How could he have fallen for someone so quickly?

“Is it serious?” Marina asked.

“I think it might be.”

Marina sighed. “I don’t think I’m ready for another chapter of Peter’s love life.”

“Well, you better get ready ... because it’s you he’s mooning over.”

“Me! You must be joking!”

“Come on, Marina. This has been a long time coming and you know it.”

“I do not know it. Just because you like playing matchmaker doesn’t make it fact. We’re friends, we love each other, but like family.”

“Here’s a fact for you, Marina. When Peter comes over here and he’s alone with me, all he wants to talk about is you. I finally told him to shit or get off the pot, that I wasn’t going to listen to him anymore.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Now when he’s here, instead of talking, he just sits around staring off into space. Actually, he tried to talk to Zoe about you the other day, but she practically bit his head off.”

“You didn’t tell him anything about what’s going on, did you?”

“No. It’s not my place to get into that with him.”

Marina couldn’t imagine telling Peter her story, and wondered how Zoe would feel about keeping it just between them once all was said and done.

Lydia’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Marina?”

“Sorry. I’m here. I need to go to sleep. It’s really late.”

“Of course. But do me a favor and don’t get all freaked out about Peter. Don’t shut the door before you even know what’s on the other side, okay? Promise me.”

“Okay, fine. I promise.”

Marina hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling. Today she’d had one of the most important doors of her life slammed in her face, and didn’t think she could risk opening another one, even a crack.

The following morning, Marina woke on top of the blanket with the bedspread wound around her like a mummy’s shroud. Her head ached, with wine or words she wasn’t sure, maybe a combination of both. Between her altercation with Sarah and Lydia’s pronouncement, her mind hadn’t stopped all night, and she’d hardly slept until, finally, around dawn, she succumbed to a murky slumber. If she’d been able to tell Lydia about finding the bust and everything that ensued, she might have had a more restful night, but Lydia had been so intent on telling her about Peter that she’d been reluctant to interrupt. Besides, she hadn’t had time to fully digest it herself.

Marina wrestled herself out of the bedspread, put it over her shoulders, and walked to the window. On the table, pale streaks of winter sunlight played across the congealed pasta and wilted greens from the night before. Across the street, a gypsy woman dressed in voluminous rags sat on the sidewalk, a paper cup in front of her. She was the first gypsy Marina had seen since her arrival, and it made her think of Thomas and the first exhibit she’d seen of his work. She recalled the uneasiness she’d felt looking at some of his purloined shots, and how easily she’d shrugged it off in the face of a new life with exciting, sophisticated friends. With the thought of Thomas, her mind turned to Zoe. It was Zoe she wanted to think about, not Thomas, not Sarah, not even Peter. Zoe, who wanted her back. Marina glanced at the clock radio on the bedside table, but it was too early to call. The girls wouldn’t be back at Lydia’s until midafternoon. She’d have to wait until evening and pray that Zoe would still want to talk to her. But would Zoe ever be able to forgive her for depriving her of her father? If only there was a way to make Zoe see that she’d been better off not having Thomas in her life. But it seemed unlikely to Marina that she’d be able to achieve that without tarnishing the glossy image that Zoe had of her father, and she didn’t want to take that away from her. Perhaps if she gave Zoe some of what was good about Thomas, it might be easier for her to let go of what she’d never had. With this in mind, Marina formulated a plan for the day.

After a quick shower, Marina dressed in the same clothes she’d worn the night before and went down to the front desk for a map of the city. On her way to Piazza della Repubblica, she walked under the long portico in front of the central post office, where a flower market was doing a brisk business and the souvenir stalls seemed to be selling the same trinkets they had years ago. At Caffè Gilli, Marina allowed herself a pricey cappuccino and pastry in the company of a few well-heeled Florentines having their midmorning coffee. She studied her face in the mirror behind the bar, and for the first time in a long time, liked what she saw. Her hair was as lustrous as it had been the night she arrived in this city with a pack on her back and hope in her heart, and her skin glowed in spite of the stress she was under. She turned her head from side to side, examining her jaw and neck, until she realized she’d caught the barman’s eye. She returned his smile before hastily choosing a gift for Zoe, a small box of chocolates with an etching of the Duomo on the lid. She paid the cashier and, with map in hand, set out on her mission. She hoped that Josh wouldn’t notice her truancy, but in the face of her daughter’s well-being, the conference had to take a backseat. Having decided to start at the top, literally, and work her way down, she hailed a cab to take her up to the Piazzale Michelangelo.

That well-known view of the city with the massive Duomo at its center had not changed except for where construction cranes imposed themselves on the panorama. In the center of the square, yet another copy of Michelangelo’s
David
stood on a plinth keeping watch over the city. The statues
Night, Day, Dawn,
and
Dusk
stood guard at its base. Thomas had brought her here on one of their reconnaissance missions for his show,
Flesh in Stone
. She had enjoyed those outings with Thomas, and in Zoe’s honor, would retrace their steps as best she could, steps that, if she didn’t think about where they’d ultimately led, had been happy and exciting ones. On that particular day, she’d kept notes as Thomas dictated light readings, angles, aperture settings, and any number of details that pertained to the preliminary shots he took for what turned out to be some of the more striking photographs in the show. From there they had climbed a set of steep steps to the little church of San Miniato, arriving just in time to hear the resident monks intone Gregorian chants at vespers.