The Glass Butterfly (27 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Glass Butterfly
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“Mom will be here tomorrow,” Zoe said, in a brief lull when they were the only ones in the store. Johnson, from his blanket beside the counter, lifted his head as if this news interested him. “About time, too! I don't know what we would have done without you, Paulette.” She bent to tug gently at Johnson's ears. “Or you, either, Johnson me lad.”
Tory cleared the counter of ends of clipped ribbon and slivers of bright wrapping paper, sweeping them into the wastepaper basket. “It worked out for all of us,” she said.
“Whew! That's the last one for today.” Zoe set a fresh arrangement, a gay display of white roses and red carnations and thick candy canes, into the refrigerated cabinet to wait for pickup. “It's a good thing. My fingertips are practically raw.”
“That's beautiful, Zoe,” Tory said. “You're wonderful at this.”
“Thanks.” Zoe stepped into the back, and returned a few moments later with two steaming cups of tea. “I think we need this. There'll be another rush toward closing.”
“Thank you,” Tory said fervently. “I do need it.”
Zoe hopped up on the counter and sat swinging her yellow cowboy boots. She eyed Tory over the rim of her cup. “So-oooo,” she said, with a scarlet-lipped grin. She had pinned a sprig of holly amid the black spikes of her hair, and she wore red-and-green-striped tights. “Are you going to tell me about Dr. Darling, or will I have to hear it from that bitch Shirley?”
Startled, Tory laughed, and Zoe pointed a red fingernail at her. “There, now!” she said. “I knew you'd be gorgeous if I could get you to smile.”
“Zoe! I've been smiling at customers all day!”
“Not the same,” Zoe said breezily. “Not the same at all. So tell me. How was your date?”
Tory leaned against the counter, her teacup cradled in her hands. “We didn't have a date.”
“You had dinner, I know that.”
“You weren't kidding about small town gossip, I guess.”
“Nope. I grew up with it, and trust me, it's better than CNN.”
“Zoe, you're an original.”
“That's the idea.” Zoe pushed her spikes up with her fingers. “So you're not going to tell me?”
“There's nothing really to tell. We did have dinner.”
“And wine?”
Tory laughed again, and sipped her tea. “I always have wine,” she said.
“That's my girl!” The bell over the door tinkled, and Zoe slid off the counter, her florist's apron fluttering. “Back to the salt mines. Why do we say that, I wonder?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to greet the new customers coming in from the fog. The mist had persisted all day, wreathing the Christmas lights up and down the street in shifting silver haloes.
Tory drank the rest of her tea, then took Johnson's leash from the coat hook and clipped it on. She led him through the back room, where jumbled cartons and boxes crowded together with a vacuum cleaner, a big plastic garbage can for flower clippings, and other flotsam and jetsam. In the alley behind the shop she let Johnson sniff for a few minutes while she tipped her face up and let mist collect on her eyelashes.
Three days till Christmas. The fog around her seemed to swirl with memories, the rush of her clients having a difficult time over the holidays, the cheerful press of shopping and baking, the delight—and the torment—of choosing gifts for Jack. Midnight Mass, a tree, cards arriving in the mail, swapping fruitcakes with Kate. Christmas carols,
Messiah
on the radio, kitschy decorations and colored lights, crystalline snowfall that made everything look clean and new.
Ellice Gordon had taken that from her. Had stolen it all, with the singular selfishness of the sociopath. Tory would spend Christmas without her son, and that would be no Christmas at all. The colored lights mocked her, and she understood the desperation some of her clients had felt as the holidays drew near.
Johnson pressed close against her knee, sensing her misery. She knelt beside him, encircling his neck with her arm. Her cheeks were wet, and she wiped them on her sleeve. “It's just the fog,” she whispered to Johnson. He nuzzled her neck and gave a little anxious whine. She hugged him tighter. “Don't worry, Johnson. Everything's okay.”
But it wasn't.
26
Mentisci! Sì! Finisci!
 
You lie! Yes! Finish!
 
—Minnie,
La Fanciulla del West,
Act Two
I
t was late when Tory pulled the Beetle into the driveway of the cottage. She hadn't eaten much, but she didn't feel hungry. She decided to take Johnson out on the beach, hoping he wouldn't need to go again before morning. She bundled herself in her down coat. It was ragged at the edges now, a bit embarrassing, but all she had. She wore her knit cap and a scarf she had picked up on a sale table. She tied a red bandana around Johnson's neck. “I know it doesn't really help keep you warm,” she told him. “But it makes me feel a bit better.” He licked her cheek, and trotted to the door in anticipation.
The dog led the way out through the little gate and down to the damp sand. It was too dark and foggy to see the water, though Tory heard the crash of the waves off to her right. She trudged after Johnson as he circled to the south, his favorite route. Lights twinkled from the houses to her left, faint stars of white and red and green, blurred by the mist. Here and there she could make out the shapes of Christmas trees in picture windows, limned by even fainter lights. Johnson circled back every few moments to make sure she was following.
The pain she had felt that afternoon had only slightly subsided. Ice Woman, she thought, was well and truly melted. Talking with Hank, accepting the affection of the dog, chatting with the ebullient Zoe and making herself smile and be courteous to customers, had all conspired to dissolve the casing of ice that had protected her for so long. It was, in truth, a demonstration of the advice she gave unhappy clients. Live. Move. Talk. Act like you're alive, and you'll begin to feel that way.
She hadn't known, when she told them that, how much it could hurt.
When Johnson had enough of racing through the gray darkness, they made their way back to the cottage. Tory gave the dog his dinner. She debated opening a can of soup for herself, but nothing sounded good. Not even the half-empty bottle of wine appealed to her. It was as if, the flatter and leaner her belly got, the less she wanted to put in it. She put a CD into Iris's player, and set a fire in the fireplace, then curled up in the easy chair with Johnson at her feet to listen to the Bach Christmas Oratorio, her latest find from the library sale shelves.
She bent forward to pick up the paperweight, nestling it in her lap as she settled back. She traced the gold outline of the butterfly with her fingertip, and tried to picture her grandmother, tried to remember the sound of her voice, speaking with her heavy Italian accent as she told the story of the paperweight being handed down in the family. She had warned the young Tory to take care with it when it came to her. The glass was fragile, she said. And it was important. A symbol of family. Of history.
Tory deliberately closed her eyes. It was time to finish whatever story was being told to her in her dreams. To listen to what her subconscious was trying to say. She was ready, she thought. She had to be.
 
When Zita came down the lane, the day before Christmas, Doria was in the bedroom, smoothing freshly washed sheets on the cots her brothers slept in, plumping their pillows. She heard Zita's knock, and the clatter of the kettle as Emilia set it to boil. She stood behind the half-open bedroom door, a pillow in her hands, to listen to Zita's news.
“He's back,” Zita said. Doria, behind the door, leaned forward to hear better. He was back? Puccini had returned?
Zita went on. “She drove him half mad with her letters and calling him on that telephone. I had to stand there in the kitchen and listen to her begging him, promising him all sorts of things. You never heard a woman so pitiful!”
“I thought he was angry at her.”
“Oh, he is, he is. They barely speak, even now. But on the telephone—she shouts into it, you know, though that screech of hers could probably reach all the way to Roma without any wires to carry it. She cried, and swore she would let him work on his opera. She told him the children won't come unless he's here, and she went on and on about how she would be all alone for Christmas.”
“And what about Doria? Will he do something about Doria?”
Doria heard the clink of coffee cups, the sliding of the saucers. She leaned her forehead against the splintery edge of the door, listening, hardly breathing.
“
Non lo so,
Emilia. If they speak of her, it's not in my hearing.”
“Perhaps, in time?”
“I hope so. I certainly hope so!” And then, in a rough whisper, “How is she, Emilia? How is our little Doria?”
“I'm worried about her, Zita. She doesn't eat, and she hardly speaks. She scurries around, cleaning things that aren't dirty, scrubbing things that don't need it. She fixes things. There's not a broken hinge or cracked board in the whole house. That's nice, but it's not natural, a young girl behaving this way.”
Doria straightened and pulled back from the doorway, easing the door shut as silently as she could. She went to the window on the far side of the bedroom, and peeked out through the curtain. There were two women passing by in the dirt lane, scarves pulled forward over their foreheads against the intermittent spatter of rain, shopping bags over their arms. As they walked by, they cast furtive, curious glances at the house.
They made Doria furious. These people were her neighbors. They had known her from infancy. Now they watched her with narrow eyes, bent their heads to murmur together as she passed them, whispered behind her back in the shops and the café. She couldn't bear the thought that they believed Elvira Puccini's slanders.
Half the village was on her side, her mother assured her. That half believed the Puccini woman was out of her mind with jealousy. They told stories of the scenes she had created in Milan and Lucca, and said she didn't dare show her face in those places.
But the other half of Torre's citizens had seized on the excitement. They believed Doria had been seduced by Puccini—or had, as Elvira claimed, seduced him. They repeated the names Elvira had called her—slut, slattern, and worse. It was bitterly unfair.
What Doria wanted, she thought, was so modest. She wished only to return to her pretty bedroom behind the kitchen at Villa Puccini, to clean and wash and iron, to help Zita in the kitchen, to serve at table, and to listen to the music at night.
Elvira Puccini could never understand such simple desires. Elvira had five houses to live in! She wore beautiful clothes and she rode in fast automobiles. She could go anywhere she liked, without asking anyone. She could stay in hotels, eat in restaurants. She had been to Paris, and to New York, to Rome, even to London! She had no idea what it meant to be a poor girl who had never traveled beyond the boundaries of her village.
Doria lay down on one of the beds, and stared up at the pattern of cracks in the low ceiling. She could smell panforte, and thought that Zita must have made an extra one for the Manfredi family. She knew how it would look, how it would taste, rich with nuts and fruit and butter. Today, she should have been slicing panforte in the kitchen at Villa Puccini! She should have been setting it on the cut-glass dessert plates, pouring out tiny glasses of
limoncello
to go with it. She should have been serving the
signori
and their family, seeing them off to Mass, laying the table for Christmas breakfast.
She wanted to be doing that, not making beds for ungrateful little brothers. She wanted it so much it seemed her very desire should make it possible. Surely that was fair? Surely it was not too much to ask that she should have this simple wish satisfied?
She sat up suddenly in bed, propelled by a rush of righteous energy.
Perhaps the maestro would insist. After all, he had only just returned. There would be time. He was busy, no doubt, with his opera, with soothing Elvira's fears, with the children and grandchildren come for the holiday. Surely he meant to make the
signora
send for her.
Perhaps, she thought, if he were to see her, he would remember how fond he was of her, how they had talked through his long nights of pain. Perhaps, if he remembered all of that, he would make Elvira bring her back to Villa Puccini. She wouldn't have to apologize! Doria would forgive her without that, if she would only allow her to return!
The idea made Doria leap from the bed to stand in the middle of her bedroom, her body suddenly thrumming. She felt edgy and stimulated, as if she had drunk too much coffee, but it felt good to have a plan. It felt good to have hope!
She pressed her hands together for a moment, thinking, then crossed to the row of wooden pegs to pull down her best dress and shake out the wrinkles. She took her good shoes from the corner where she had set them, and checked the soles to be certain they were clean. She found her gloves, and her black stockings, and laid everything out. The wool of her good black coat was worn thin, but that couldn't be helped. She had mended the rents in the skirt, and she had brushed it only two days before. She had steamed and shaped her black felt hat, too.
Now all she needed was a bath!
She hurried out into the kitchen. Her mother and Zita broke off their conversation, staring at her in wonder as she dashed about, building up the fire in the stove, tugging the tin tub in from the porch. Emilia said, “Doria? What are you doing?”
Doria, pumping water into the kettle, spoke over her shoulder. “If he's back, Mamma, he should see me, be reminded of how the villa needs me!”
Zita said cautiously, “Doria
mia,
it's true that we need you, but I'm not sure the
signora—
”
Doria whirled to face her, her hands on her hips. She tossed her head. “It doesn't matter about the
signora!
” she cried. After the dark bedroom, the December day seemed almost too bright to bear, cold sunlight glinting off every surface so her eyes stung with it. “The maestro is back!” Doria said triumphantly. “He will see to everything!”
And though Zita shook her frizzy head in doubt, and Emilia scowled and fretted, Doria would not be persuaded. She pressed on with her preparations, filling the tub, fetching the soap and shampoo and a towel. All that was needed was for Puccini to be reminded! The moment he laid eyes on her, he would remember his promise, and she would be back where she belonged.
 
Christmas morning dawned clear and cold in Torre. Doria rose early to brush her hair out of its plaits, and twist it up into a shining neat bun. The family gathered noisily, Emilia scolding everyone to wash, to dress properly, to polish their shoes. She sent them back into the bedroom time and again, and they ran in and out, banging drawers, dropping shirts and socks, smothering laughter and curses. Doria dressed with the greatest care, and when the church bells began to ring to call the people to Mass, she put her hat on and thrust the pin through. Her mother eyed her, and nodded. “You look good, Doria.”
“Grazie,”
Doria answered.
As she shrugged into her coat, Emilia pulled the collar up around her chin. “That will hide the shiny places,” she said, and Doria said again,
“Grazie.”
Her mother led the way, and Doria and her brothers trailed after her into the lane.
As they walked to San Giuseppe, Doria held her head high, avoiding the curious gazes of her neighbors. She refused to worry about what they were thinking. She thought instead about the Christmas of last year, of 1907, the forest of candles flickering in the church, Father Michelucci looking happy and proud of his crowded little church, and its most famous congregant on his knees at the communion rail. Doria had ducked in just in time for the first hymn, after making everything ready at the villa. After Mass, she had kissed her mother, then hurried back to Villa Puccini ahead of the family. The nativity scene had been laid out in the studio, and in the dining room Doria helped Zita arrange her sumptuous breakfast, the panforte waiting in all its glory under a lacy sprinkle of the finest ground sugar. Doria meant to do all of that again. Surely Puccini's return was a sign for her! She would offer a special prayer to the Virgin to make it so.
The Christmas Mass was always a joyous one. Doria loved hearing Father Michelucci chant the paternoster, his flock behind him with bent heads. Incense and candle smoke filled the church, and the crush of bodies—nearly every citizen of Torre—made it warm as toast. The Manfredis sat near the back of the church, but Doria could see, in the very first pew, the crown of one of Elvira Puccini's elaborate hats, a purple velvet affair with a sweeping white feather. Next to her was her daughter, Fosca, in a stylish hat with a great scarlet bow. Her little daughters, Franca and three-year-old Biki, Puccini's great favorite, sat beside her, also dressed in Christmas finery, with crocheted scarves draped over their hair. Beyond them was Puccini, his hair and mustache freshly trimmed. Tonio was there, too, and Fosca's husband. Everyone had decided to come after all.
In the pew behind the Puccinis Old Zita sat, her back very straight, wearing her ancient brown hat that always looked as if it had been squashed flat by the wheels of a donkey cart.

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