A month had passed since my arrival and there was no telephone call or message left at the front desk from Donovan. Why didn’t that surprise me? On how many first dates had I gone in five years – always looking for that someone special or something wonderful and coming up with nothing?
Had I changed my life’s course of events in Verona?
Not exactly.
Things started to happen. On my passaggio one evening, I paused before an advertisement for an art show at the Uffizi. The poster graced the window of a high-end boutique in the Via Tornabuoni, where that illustrious fifteenth century family had its houses and shops once upon a time. The illustration was a detail from Ghirlandaio’s frescoes from Santa Maria Novella, a portrait of Ludovica Tornabuoni in The Birth of the Virgin. I smiled, for the dress Ludovica wore had been the inspiration for my prom gown.
“You were beautiful and enchanting.”
Turning, I smiled at Joan of Arc, who was standing to my right and studying the poster with me.
“Her life wasn’t unlike yours, I think,” Joan continued.
“That is a certainty.”
Joan and I glanced to the left and saw the pretty blonde girl in the portrait, dressed in her mauve-colored gown, standing with us on the street.
“Ludovica?” I asked.
“Cecilia. Everyone thinks that’s Ludovica, but it’s really me. No one knows about me, other than that I wear a pretty dress in one of Maestro Ghirlandaio’s frescoes at Santa Maria Novella,” she said and then waved a hand toward one of the shop doors, the Prada shop. Prada! How could I not? We slipped in with no one on the street noticing us, of course, and went through to the Curiosity Shop.
“Ah! Signorina, buon giorno! Come stai?” the Proprietress greeted, taking off her glasses and primping her hair as we entered. “Would you like a cup of coffee, or tea? We have biscuits – the shortbread you like.”
Cecilia waved her off and made straight for my table where she sat down with Joan and reached for my sketchbook and started flipping through it. “You’ll want to know everything.”
“Well, not particularly…”
Glaring at me for the impertinent comment, Cecilia found a drawing and tapped it. “I like your brother’s rendition. It’s something I would have worn to meet my lover.”
“Get on with it!” Joan sniped.
“I am the youngest of the Tornabuoni daughters. You know my sisters-in-law Giovanna degli Albizzi and Ludovica. Maestro Ghirlandaio favored them for his work. I was disgraced, but my mother insisted that I be portrayed in some manner, so he put me in that fresco with my aunt Lucrezia, and they made me wear what would have been my wedding clothes.”
My brows were raised and I was about to speak when Joan held up her hand for silence.
“I was contracted to marry one of the Albizzi sons but I refused. I had taken a lover, you see, the son of a painter. My parents forbade me to see him, but we ran away together and were caught – they discovered I was with child and my lover was executed in the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio. Rather than take up the veil and go to a convent, or suffer the flames of the stake, I took poison. The portrait was done after my death. In retrospect, I handled it quite badly, don’t you think, Joan?”
Joan shook her head and got up from the table. “That wasn’t what I hoped you would share, Cecilia,” she sighed. “Always the same story…she thinks she’s the inspiration for Romeo and Juliet.”
“I think you understand, Alice,” Cecilia said, taking my hands. “One must always be ready to salvage love from a pyre of unhappiness!”
“Oh, please!” Richard the Third moaned and snapped his copy of the London Times.
“Cecilia!” the Proprietress hissed. “What did I tell you?”
Cecilia Tornabuoni glanced at me and tapped the sketchbook drawing before she hurried out of the Shop. I looked down at the drawing and smiled, for it became an advertisement for Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet in a Vogue magazine, circa 1970, sitting on the top of a pile of magazines cluttering my bed.
“There’s an idea,” Dennis said, taking the magazine and studying the photographs carefully. “We could do something like this!”
“Oh please, Dennis, no!” I moaned.
“Why not? Not this little red number Olivia wore?” He tapped the iconic photograph of Romeo and Juliet meeting at the ball. “That’s your color. Not everyone can wear that shade of red.”
“Everyone will know where I got the idea, and second period English will be a living hell,” I groaned, rolling over the bed and retrieving another magazine from the floor. “Claudia and Janine will tease me unmercifully: ‘Oh, you look like Juliet, Alice! What are you writing, Alice? Are you writing a play, Alice? Does ‘Q’ stand for Quinn and queer, Alice?’ Too bad murder is illegal - what about this?” I asked, pointing.
“Barbarella it isn’t, sweetie. However much it would rev up the hormones in that drop-dead gorgeous boyfriend of yours, if you showed up at the Claremont in that dress you’d be expelled!”
Dennis flipped a page to a layout of Twiggy in the latest mod couture. “You’ve got legs and an outtasight body for your age – what could be better than a mini? A cloud of chiffon and a hint of the thinnest, lightest silk, a bit of sparkle in pale peach and baby blue, or lilac? Even better, Faery Princess: a burgundy. Who wears burgundy at a spring prom?”
“Everyone will be wearing a tent dress or mini, and I don’t want to be everyone.”
“Hold the phone, Mary!” Dennis said and grabbed a book from the shelf, flipping through pages and then holding up a plate: Cecilia Tornabuoni in her pale pink and silver gown. He then took my sketchbook and colored pencils and went to work. Moments later he had a modern version of the dress. It was a high-waisted, sashed gown, more circa 1914 than mid-fifteenth century; an a-line float in what looked like layers of sheer fabric, like a ballerina’s costume, coming a few inches above the ankles, a bit higher in front than the back for the illusion of a train.
“Rather than heavy brocade or velvet, I’m thinking a silk chiffon or charmeuse overdress in pale apricot with a silver crepe chemise as an underdress, so that it flows. It may be a-line and like a tent, but with the sash a few inches below your bust, and your figure, it will drape nicely and skim your curves – or something with a bit of silver thread woven in so it catches the light. You can wear a sheer peasant-style shirt under it, in silver, low-cut if you want, but not so low that Quinn is staring at your girls all night,” Dennis explained. “The overdress will be slashed bodice to knee on the side seams so the silver can come through, the front will have a V-shaped neckline, the under dress will have a square décolleté, and if we can do it, some beading with crystals and pearls. Silver slippers or silver Mary Janes – for this, I think silver slippers, Cinderella.”
“Perfect!”
That’s what Quinn said when he arrived several weeks later to escort me to the prom. His cummerbund and bow tie were made of the same silver as the underdress and he proudly wore them with his tuxedo.
“He owns that?” Dennis hissed in a delighted tone as he followed me downstairs. “You said his parents were well off, but you didn’t say they were rich! That must be Bill Blass or Jermyn’s, or that new designer from Italy – Giorgio Armani!”
“They’ve got some money,” I giggled. “They live in the old Hume house on Buena Vista.”
“The castle? My God, Faery Princess, it’s no wonder you fell in love with him!”
“His house has nothing to do with why I love him – or his tuxedo.”
“Nobody owns a tux – they rent them!”
“He has to attend opera functions with his family, and there are the concerts and auditions his father drags him to every week.”
Dennis was going to make another comment when we reached the landing and I playfully kicked him before we went down silently, arm in arm. We were almost to the bottom of the stairs when Dennis cleared his throat. Harry and Quinn turned and from the looks on their faces, our collaboration and
hard work was successful.
“Sweetheart! You look amazing!” Harry exclaimed softly.
Quinn’s smile said it all. “Perfect!” he murmured as he stepped forward. In a theatrical moment, he kissed my hand, whispering, “My lady and my love…”
“You’re making me blush,” I admitted and forgot that embarrassment when Quinn handed me a bouquet of white and pale apricot-colored roses with calla lilies. “I wanted real flowers, not one of those half-dead carnations,” he explained as we posed for photographs.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of me as we walked down the steps to his father’s Volkswagen Beetle, and then we drove up to the Claremont Hotel where Quinn’s Senior Prom was being held that year.
We were among the last to arrive. The music was up loud and students were out in front with china plates filled with food and glasses of something bubbly, so we knew the buffet table was already picked over. The tables closest to the stage would be taken. A few of Quinn’s orchestra mates were standing at the entrance to the ballroom and sharing a contraband cigarette when Quinn escorted me upstairs.
“Holy shit, Radcliffe!” one of the boys exclaimed as we walked past. “How did you score that?”
“Fox-eey!” another said. “Tasty little morsel…”
Quinn suddenly wheeled and I stumbled, still attached to his arm. “Hey – show a little respect for the lady!” he growled at them.
“Ladies now, is it? Thought it used to be gentlemen,” said a blonde guy who came out of the shadows. He was dressed in a Carnaby Street suit – a mod of several years past – and was smoking a joint. The guy from the school corridor. “What? Did you change teams, Radcliffe?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quinn grumbled as we turned to go in.
“You did back in July!”
We ignored the snickering and comments and went inside, taking a table as far away as we could from the popular kids up by the stage and the band, which meant we sat by ourselves in a corner. Quinn seated me and then went to the buffet, bringing back an assortment of vegetables, chicken wings, and other finger food, and two glasses of sparkling apple cider.
“Is there something I should know?” I dared to ask.
“No. You know all there is to know.” He growled, throwing himself into a chair.
“Don’t let it get to you,” I murmured as we ate and watched other couples dancing.
“I don’t like it when guys make those comments about you,” he said, a little too forcefully.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, well I know what they’re thinking – and I’ve heard the locker room talk. I didn’t know my girlfriend was so popular!”
“Neither did I – and I don’t want to spoil the evening talking about idiots and trolls like those guys outside. They’re just jealous, don’t you see? Do you want to dance?”
“Let’s go.”
We danced to Nights in White Satin and then Yesterday. These melancholy favorites of mine were perfect for the evening that was made special when Quinn kept whispering “I love you!” as we swayed back and forth locked in an embrace. The chaperones interrupted other couples dancing so close you couldn’t see light between them, but Quinn and I were ignored. As we were going back to our table, the Senior Class President caught my hand, winked, and said, “You’re so beautiful, Alice.” Quinn immediately went on the defensive, but looked as surprised as I did when he put out his hand to Quinn. “You’re a lucky guy, Quinn.”
“Don’t I know it?” Quinn said, smiling.
For most of the evening we sat at the table and Quinn kept whispering how beautiful I truly was. “I am so very lucky,” he murmured in my ear and took my hands and kissed them.
When he brought me home, Quinn walked me to the door and gave me one of the most passionate kisses I would ever receive. I would remember the look of passion mingled with sweetness and it haunted me as I went inside from the front porch to the Curiosity Shop. Hildegard von Bingen was watering the flower boxes that were full of calla lilies and white and yellow roses and freesias.
“You forgot this,” she said as she paused mid-stream, holding my tour guide. As soon as I accepted the book, I was back in Florence in front of the poster for the art exhibition. Glancing at the advertisement, I smiled, knowing Cecilia’s secret¸ the reason for the bemused expression on her pretty face.
Enzo, the night clerk, was at the desk reading a paper when I arrived hours later. He smiled and handed me that day’s mail.
“Grazie, Enzo,” I said absently, sorting through letters from Dennis, Harry and colleagues from graduate school.
“Oh! I almost forgot. A gentleman called for you,” he said and in doing so, picked up the paper and glanced at the desktop, started shuffling through a wire basket of forms. “A nice looking young man maybe about your age – such a smile! I thought he was a Florentine, but no, American. Well-educated and nice manners; not your typical boy from the States. I knew he was looking for you when he came in. You’re a perfect pair, and you’re so beautiful – where is that paper?”
I smiled nervously and watched as Enzo continued to look, mumbling and muttering about the young man surely being from California, because he seemed so outgoing and casual, but friendly, like the Californians who visited Florence.
“Always the comparison with San Francisco,” Enzo went on.
“Do you remember his name?” I asked, starting to feel anxious.
“Quick, I think? Is that a surname in English?”
No! Impossible!
“Here you are.”
A folded square of paper came out of Enzo’s suit pocket with keys, wallet and handkerchief. He waited expectantly and sighed when I put the note in my own pocket and waved goodbye.
Once past the lobby, I sprinted upstairs, and slammed the door shut as soon as I was in my room. I didn’t know if my heart was pounding from the unexpected exercise or the anticipation. Closing my eyes, I unfolded the note and whispered a prayer, then looked down.
Donovan Trist, Hotel Cavour, +39 055 266271.
That shock of adrenaline one gets when excited or frightened coursed through me. Our date in Verona, our plans to meet in Florence – what woman wouldn’t remember a romantic evening like that?
And what woman wouldn’t feel betrayed when a promise was broken?
The slip of paper wavered and trembled as I held it over the toilet bowl.
“He’s making it easy for you.”
Joan of Arc reached out from behind me and snatched the paper from my hand. She went into the main room and tucked the phone number in my purse.
“I don’t have to call him – I don’t want to.”
“But Alice, that would change his life and yours too drastically.”
“For the better, I hope!” I stated, following her into the bedroom.
“Don’t you see? He’s letting you make a decision.”
“For the first time.”
I grabbed for my purse, but Joan was quicker and held it a distance from me, saying, “You cannot change all of his life. You are a part of that history. Certain moments that make changes for the better, yes, but not all of it. If you don’t call him you might as well not exist.”
“And I have to relive the bad?”
Joan sat on the loveseat, resting her chin on the hilt of her sword and watching me pace yet another circle. “How do you know it will be bad if you say and do things just a bit differently?”
“I know what he’s really like,” I said tersely. “And so you do!”
“There’s an attraction – admit it!”
“It’s obvious why! He looks like – him!”
“Well, why do you think you were drawn to him? Is that a bad thing?”
“Well yes! To be reminded of him every day. Were you ever in love, Joan? Except with God and Jesus and the saints?”
“There was a boy in Domremy,” Joan purred. “I melted every time he came by our house to the fields; his hand touched my sleeve ac
cidentally one day, and I felt like it was fire – a good fire. I could only think of him, until Saint Catherine and Saint Michael put an end to all that. Fighting a man with a sword is easier than loving him.”
“So you know how I’m feeling – that sense of confusion, of anticipation, of fear. You want to act on your instincts and your heart, but you’re afraid, because you don’t know, and yet you do.”
“Yes.” Joan leaned forward now, adding, “There’s something else, perhaps?”
“Quinn said he would come back.”
“He didn’t say when. What do you do in the meantime? There are forces at work here that you must address. Putting yourself in a cupboard won’t give you the answers – or Quinn.”
“I don’t want to live through that again!”
Joan got up and sheathed the sword, and started to inspect my toiletries on the vanity. She kissed my cheek before she left, saying, “You know what you must do. Some sacrifices are well worth it. Trust me, I know.”
I went to bed that night and didn’t sleep. I could only think of Verona, Donovan, and the frightening attraction he held. I was worried now that perhaps if I blinked, I would be back in the Shop or jettisoned to another part of my memory. I feared that Quinn would be erased from my memory, that his page would be torn from the lapis book. But no, the church bells ringing outside reminded me it was Sunday morning and I was in Florence in July of 1977 with a battle looming before me.
“Two wrongs make a right.” I heard Dennis’s voice in my ear and when I stepped before the highly polished doors of the elevator, I saw his face. “Two wrongs, sweetie!”
“What does that mean? Why does everyone keep saying that?” I hissed at my reflection.
I pressed the button and began my descent – literally and figuratively.
“Buongiorno, signorina,” the day clerk greeted when I entered the lobby. “Il professore e qui. Egli e in attesa nella sala da pranzo.”
“Grazie, Tommaso. In the dining room?”
“Si, Signorina.”
Donovan was at a corner table with coffee, breakfast pastries and a copy of Corriere della Sera, the Italian national newspaper. A copy of La Nazione was folded beside his plate. He stood and smiled when I approached and extended my hand, which he took. And there we were, standing at arm’s length studying each other for the longest time. I searched for honesty in that handsome yet cold face; I could tell he was undressing me with his eyes, the way they kept moving from my eyes to my breasts.
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